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TEMPO  RUBATO 


AND 


OTHER  ESSAYS 


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GIFT  OF 

Sir   Henry  Heyman 


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1 . , » . » 


TEMPO  RUBATO 

"^  AND 


OTHER  ESSAYS 


By 

Constantin  von  Sternberg 

Author  of 
"The  Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano  Playing" 


G.  SCHIRMER 

NEW  YORK  •  BOSTON 


^ 


Copyright,  1920 
By  G.  SCHIRMER 

29451 


/.,./  .^    k    A        ,     ^^ 


TO  MY  FORMER  PUPIL  AND  LOYAL  FRIEND 

ROBERT  ARMBRUSTER 


552478 


CONTENTS 

I.  Tempo  Rubato  3 

II.  On  Plagiarism  15 

III.  The  Author's  Authority  31 

IV.  Does  Music  Describe?  55 
V.  National  Music  and  the  Negro  67 

VI.  The  Artist  and  his  Talent  85 

VII.  On  Artists'  Biographies  111 

VIII.  Civilization,  Culture  and  Music  137 


My  grateful  acknowledgement  is  due  to  the 
publishers  of  the  "Musical  Quarterly''  and 
the  ''Etude''  for  their  permission  to  use  the 
material  of  the  first  two  of  the  following 
essays;  the  remaining  ones  are  new. 


TEMPO  RUBATO 


TEMPO  RUB  A  TO 

There  is  in  musical  terminology  no  word  under 
cover  of  which  quite  so  many  sins  are  committed 
as  under  tempo  ruhato.  Chopin  deservedly  receives 
the  credit  for  having  discovered  it,  but  many  who 
thus  credit  him  hold  very  strange  ideas  about  it. 
There  are  those  who  suffer  with  a  technic  too  un- 
reliable to  keep  them  steady  in  prolonged  rapid 
passages  and  when  they  run  away  with  the  tempo 
they  palm  their  weakness  off  as  "tempo  rubato." 
Then  there  are  those  who  believe  that  the  use  of 
tempo  rubato  begins  with  the  works  of  Chopin  and 
that  it  must  not  be  employed  in  any  music  written 
before  him.  There  are  also  the  arch-pedants  who 
insist  that  tempo  rubato  not  only  begirs  but  also 
ends  with  Chopin's  compositions.  All  of  which  is, 
of  course,  pure  cant,  the  bulwark  of  ignorance  and 
bigotry. 

If  Chopin  coined  the  term  tempo  rubato,  his 
coinage  was  certainly  not  particularly  happy;  he 
could  scarcely  have  hit  upon  words  more  ambigu- 
ous and  less  descriptive  of  their  object.  "With 
freedom  of  time*'  (tempo  libero),  "vacillating  or 
wavering  time'*  (tempo  vacillando),  or  "undecided 
time"  (tempo  indeciso),  would  have  done  as  well 
and  would  have  been  more  easily  understood  by 
nations  that  do  not  speak  Italian,  of  which — by 
the  way — Chopin's  knowledge  was  very  limited. 
[  3  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Above  all,  however,  a  clearer  term  would  have  pre- 
vented that  occultism,  that  mystery,  with  which 
so  many  people  still  connect  the  tempo  rubato. 
It  is  amusing  to  note  that  even  some  serious  persons 
express  the  idea  that  in  tempo  rubato  "the  right 
hand  may  use  a  certain  freedom  while  the  left  hand 
must' keep  strict  time."  (See  Niecks'  Life  of  Chopin, 
II,  p.  101.)  A  nice  sort  of  music  would  result  from 
such  playing !  Something  like  the  singing  of  a  good 
vocalist  accompanied  by  a  poor  blockhead  who 
hammers  away  in  strict  time  without  yielding  to 
the  singer  who,  in  sheer  despair,  must  renounce  all 
artistic  expression.  It  is  reported  by  some  ladies 
that  Chopin  himself  gave  them  this  explanation, 
but — they  might  not  have  understood  him  as  well 
as  did  Wilhelm  von  Lenz,  to  whom  he  said:  "Sup- 
pose a  piece  lasts  so  and  so  many  minutes;  if  only 
the  whole  lasts  so  long,  differences  in  the  details  do 
not  matter."  The  two  precepts  are  somewhat 
contradictory,  but  of  that  I  shall  offer  an  explana- 
tion a  little  later  and  shall  mark  it  with  an  asterisk 
(*).  I"  well  remember  an  old  gentleman,  a  Pole, 
whom  I  met  in  Paris  many  years  ago,  and  who  in 
his  younger  years  had  piano  lessons  from  Chopin. 
He  talked  scarcely  of  anything  else  than  tempo 
rubato;  the  compositions  of  Chopin  were  to  him  only 
the  raw  material  to  which  the  tempo  rubato  was  to 
be  applied.  He  described  it  as  * 'unfathomable,  in- 
explicable," and  then  talked  for  an  hour  explaining 
f  4  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO 


it.  The  trouble  was  only  that,  as  often  as  I  met 
him,  the  explanation  was  never  the  same,  until  one 
day  he  capped  the  climax  by  saying  with  a  sigh: 
"Ah,  my  young  friend,  no  one  but  a  Pole  under- 
stands the  tempo  rubato;  that  is  why  only  a  Pole 
can  play  Chopin,  and  of  all  the  Poles  there  is  really 
only  one — but,  come  to  think  of  it,  no — no — he 
cannot,  either!" 

Such  mystery-mongering  is,  of  course,  pure  tommy- 
rot;  as  much  so  as  some  of  the  gushing  melliflux 
about  it  in  which  some  of  Chopin's  biographers  have 
indulged.  While  an  artistically  perfect  rubato  will 
ever  be  attainable  only  by  a  well- trained  and  finely- 
organized  artistic  nature  (taking  the  technic  for 
granted),  the  rubato  does  not  in  this  respect  differ 
from  other  artistic  attainments.  The  greater  the 
artist,  the  better  he  will  play  everything  and  conse- 
quently also  the  rubato.  But  that  does  not  shut  all 
the  rest  of  musiciandom  out  from  a  rational — or  let 
me  say  esthetic — understanding  of  it. 
A  discovery  is  not  an  invention.  Discovering  means 
to  become  conscious  of  the  existence  of  something 
that  has  preexisted  and  of  which  we  were  not  cog- 
nizant heretofore.  Just  as  the  American  continent 
had  existed  before  Columbus  chanced  to  discover  it, 
so  had  the  tempo  rubato  existed  before  it  dawned 
upon  Chopin's  consciousness.  Intensely  musical 
natures,  such  as  Bach,  Beethoven  and  like  masters, 
cannot  by  any  possibility  have  played  their  compo- 
(5  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

sitions  with  the  stiff  regularity  of  metronomic  beats. 
The  mere  assuming  of  such  an  absurdity  would  be 
an  insult  to  their  genius.  It  is  only  reasonable  to 
believe  that  every  one  of  them  played  occasionally 
rubato,  although  they  may  have  been  as  uncon- 
scious of  it  as  was  my  dear  old  (first)  teacher, 
Moscheles.  He  proposed  to  play  a  Beethoven 
Adagio  with  all  the  expression  it  required  and  still 
keep  strict  time — and  then  he  sat  down  at  the  piano 
and  played  a  most  beautiful  rubato,  for  he  was  a 
consummate  artist.  And  when  he  had  finished  he 
commented  upon  how  strictly  he  had  kept  time. 
The  masters  before  Chopin  had  simply  not  been 
conscious  of  their  rubato  playing,  and  besides,  one 
master's  rubato  was  fairly  certain  to  differ  from  that 
of  another  master,  according  to  the  cast  of  their 
melodies  and  phrases;  it  is,  nevertheless,  safe  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  no  musician^  capable  of 
sensing  the  musical  feeling  of  a  melody ^  ever  played 
it  in  strict  time.  It  would  have  gone  as  much  against 
the  grain  of  his  musical  nature  as  it  would  have  been 
contrary  to  the  nature  of  music.  If  vacillations  of 
movement  are  inadmissible  in  the  works  (say)  of 
Beethoven,  then  an  orchestra  playing  one  of  his 
symphonies  should  need  no  conductor;  a  large 
metronome  would  do  just  as  well  as  far  as  the  tempo 
is  concerned. 

If  I  now  may  venture  to  express  the  hope  of  having 

satisfied  the  reader  on  my  first  point,  namely,  that 

f  6  1 


TEMPO  RUB  A  TO 


the  works  of  Chopin  had  no  monopoly  of  an  artisti- 
cally free  treatment  of  the  matter  of  time-keeping, 
I  may  proceed  to  deal  with  the  subject  directly 
and  begin  by  calling  attention  to  certain  verities 
concerning  art:  first,  that  ultimately  all  art  is  one; 
second,  that  the  various  branches  of  art  differ  only 
in  their  materials  and  in  the  province  of  their 
subjects;  third,  that  the  esthetic  principles  are  the 
same  whether  we  speak  of  painting,  poetry  or  music. 
A  painter,  interpreting  upon  the  canvas  the  feelings 
which  a  particular  landscape  under  certain  con- 
ditions of  light,  etc.,  has  awakened  in  him,  is  as  free 
and  as  unfree  in  his  work  as  is  an  elocutionist  in 
reciting  a  poem  or  a  musician  interpreting  a  com- 
position. What  nature  meant  to  say  in  that  par- 
ticular landscape,  no  one  can  tell  any  more  than 
what  a  composer  meant  to  say  in  a  composition. 
The  painter  can  strive  only  to  reproduce  on  his 
canvas  what  he  saw  in  that  landscape.  That  is 
his  incontestable  right,  his  freedom,  but — whether 
his  canvas  measures  one  square  foot  or  ten  feet  by 
twenty — he  must  not  paint  on  the  frame;  he  must 
keep  within  his  canvas  and  make  the  dimensions 
of  the  visible  objects  proportionate  to  the  size  of  his 
canvas.  He  may,  however,  enlarge  or  reduce  in 
size  any  detail  as  his  conception  and  its  expression 
may  prompt  him  to  do.  It  is  quite  similar  with 
the  elocutionist;  supposing  a  given  poem  contains 
2000  syllables  and  it  takes  him  five  minutes  to 
[7] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

recite  it,  he  certainly  is  not  obliged  to  pronounce 
exactly  400  syllables  in  each  minute.  He  is  free 
to  speak  certain  words  or  lines  slower  and  certain 
others  faster.  Neither  is  it  his  duty  to  emphasize 
the  scanning,  nor  is  he  bound  to  stop  at  the  end  of  a 
line  if  the  sentence  extends  to  the  next  one.  What 
he  endeavors  to  convey  is  neither  the  correct 
number  of  feet  in  every  meter  nor  the  assonance 
of  the  rhymes,  but  the  literary  human  sense  of  the 
poem.  Just  so  it  is  with  the  executive  musician; 
a  composition  containing  300  measures  which, 
played  in  strict  time,  takes  five  minutes,  should  not 
occupy  more  than  five  minutes,  rubato  or  no 
rubato;  but  this  does  not  compel  the  player  to  play 
exactly  one  measure  in  every  second;  any  mechani- 
cal playing-machine  can  do  that.  The  analysis  of  a 
piece  shows  us  its  parts,  sections,  periods,  phrases, 
sub-phrases,  motives,  etc.;  in  the  rendition  or  inter- 
pretation of  the  piece  the  player  may  part  company 
with  his  metronome  (I  refer  to  it  only  metaphori- 
cally) after  the  very  first  beats;  but  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  part,  section  or  period  he  and  his  metro- 
nome should  be  together  again  and  the  number  of 
its  beats  should  tally  with  the  time  the  player  con- 
sumed— tally  approximately y  at  least.  Of  course, 
this  is  a  somewhat  drastic  or  extreme  way  of  putting 
it  and  I,  therefore,  said  "approximately"  in  order 
that  some  super-smart  criticaster  may  not  take  me 
too  literally;  but  in  spite  of  its  barn-door  size  the 
[8] 


TEMPO  RUBATO 


hint  may  serve  to  intimate  the  nature  of  tempo 
rubato  and  to  remove  or  solve  the  "mystery"  of  it. 
Those  rare  members  of  amateurdom  who  play  such 
pieces  only  as  are  within  the  scope  of  their  technic, 
play  them  as  a  rule  very  well,  and  they  may,  there- 
fore, use  the  rubato  to  their  heart's  content,  because 
their  attention  to  the  musical  inwardness  of  the 
pieces  will  not  be  diverted  by  grappling  with 
difficulties  beyond  their  pale;  but  the  average 
amateur  had  better  stick  to  strict  time,  at  least 
until — well — until  some  good  musician  assures  him 
that  the  piece  is  well  learned. 
In  conjunction  with  the  rubato  question  I  should 
like  to  say  a  word  about  its  first  cousin,  the  oc- 
casional, annotated  or  prescribed  ritardando  or 
riienutOy  synonyms  in  effect.  While  there  are  cases 
in  which  the  idea  I  have  in  mind  does  not,  or  not 
necessarily,  apply,  as  I  admit  freely  and  in  advance, 
those  cases  are  so  infrequent  as  to  be  counted  as 
exceptions.  Taking  the  matter  by  and  large,  I 
think  that  a  retard  is  an  undulation  in  the  motion 
of  a  piece.  Now,  an  undulation  consists  of  a  gentle, 
gradual  elevation  and  corresponding  depression,  of 
hills  and  valleys.  And  I  incline  to  the  belief  that 
every  casual  ritardando  implies  a  proportionate 
accelerando  either  before  or  after  it,  unless  the  ritar- 
dando serves  to  lead  into  an  altogether  slower  move- 
ment. My  orthodox  friends  may  fall  back  upon 
their  pet  argument  that  the  composer,  if  he  had 

[9] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

meant  it,  would  have  said  so;  but,  alas,  we  cannot 
always  jurare  in  verba  magistri.  Men  of  genius  have 
nearly  always  "builded  better  than  they  knew."  It 
was  almost  invariably  left  for  posterity  to  analyze 
and  explain  what  a  master's  genius  hit  upon  by  in- 
stinct, intuition,  or  whatever  name  we  may  give  to  the 
mysterious  impelling  force  which  prompts  and  moves 
genius.  Nearly  every  great  master  has  exceeded 
the  limits  of  an  established,  time-honored  law;  what 
made  him  do  it  was  not  a  dishonest  striving  for  mere 
novelty,  but  the  distinct  feeling  of  a  higher  law — of 
a  law  which  he  could  not  formulate  and  explain  (not 
even  to  himself),  but  of  which  he  felt  the  presence 
and  the  compelling  force  so  strongly  as  to  be  unable 
to  ignore  and  withstand  it.  Posterity,  viewing 
his  lifework  in  the  correlating  perspective  of  time, 
has  usually  understood  this  law  much  more  clearly 
than  the  genius  who  felt  and  obeyed  it  instinctively; 
for  it  was  from  his  very  works  that  posterity  de- 
duced the  law  and  formulated  it.  It  was  so  in 
music  as  well  as  in  many  other  fields  of  thought, 
and  it  is,  more  than  probably,  so  in  the  case  of  the 
casual  ritardando. 

When  we  speak  of  hills  it  is  not  necessary  to  specify 
every  time  that  there  are,  of  course,  valleys  between 
them;  and,  inversely,  does  not  the  very  idea  of  a 
valley  imply  the  presence  of  hills?* 

*See  my  "Ethics  and  Esthetics."  Schirmer.  New  York.  1918. 

[  10] 


TEMPO  RUBATO 


This  obviousness  may  be  the  reason  why  the  counter- 
balancing acceleration  before  or  after  the  retard  is 
so  seldom  specified;  but  it  is  just  as  probable  that  a 
master  (in  this  case  Chopin),  while  feeling  this  law 
perhaps  more  strongly  than  we  do,  did  not  under- 
stand it  and  its  workings  as  clearly. 
The  great  law  which  governs  the  motion  of  the 
universe  is  Balance !  And  this  law  is  as  powerful 
and  pervasive  in  art  as  it  is  in  every  other  phase  of 
physical  and  spiritual  life.  Hence,  when  a  certain 
amount  of  time  has  been  borrowed  in  one  place — 
or  "stolen,"  as  Chopin  chose  to  call  it — the  law  of 
balance  ordains  that  this  amount  of  time  should  be 
made  up  for  in  another  place.  When  we  reflect 
that  tempo  rubato  consists,  after  all,  only  of  ritar- 
dandos  and  accelerandos,  it  seems  quite  possible 
that  Chopin's  "rubato"  may  mean  only  an  abbrevi- 
ation for  retard  and  corresponding  hurrying,  imply- 
ing the  two  ideas  together  and  distinguishing  the 
combination  from  a  mere  retard. 
Hector  Berlioz,  a  serious  and  benevolent  critic  who 
in  his  day  was  surely  a  modem  musician,  wrote  of 
Chopin's  piano  playing  that  "he  pushed  rhythmical 
independence  much  too  far."  I  have  heard  a 
similar  opinion  expressed — though  in  the  kindliest 
possible  terms — by  Liszt.  It  is,  therefore,  quite 
probable,  that  the  novel  charms  of  time-freedom 
induced  Chopin  to  overdo  his  "liberties"  sometimes; 
but,  if  so,  it  would  be  but  another  proof  of  it  that 

I  n  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

he  rather  felt  than  understood  the  new  self-discovered 
truth;  we  can  and  must  play  in  rhythm,  but  we  need 
not  keep  strict  time  whenever  our  feelings  (their 
expression)  forbid  it. 

* 
*      * 

The  following  example  can,  of  course,  be  only  an 
approximation;  but  in  its  second  version  it  shows 
that  at  the  end  of  the  period  of  eight  measures  the 
rubato  rendition  and  the  rendition  in  strict  time 
meet  again  and  that  the  deviations  from  strict  time 
are  as  balanced  as  if  they  had  not  occurred.  In  the 
third  version  attention  may  be  called  to  the  places 
marked  with  a  cross.  These  places  show  that  the 
player  went  through  the  measure  too  fast  and  that 
the  time  thus  gained  had  to  be  balanced  by  an  un- 
warranted waiting  at  the  end  of  each  measure. 
As  he  made  no  retard  before  arriving  at  measures 
five,  six  and  seven— which  were  to  be  played  faster 
— he  finished  his  period  by  nearly  two  measures 
too  early  and  thus  put  the  entire  rhythmical  ar- 
rangement awry.  I  think  that  these  few  words  are 
necessary  to  elucidate  what  in  script  or  print  is  next 
to  impossible  to  demonstrate. 


12 


Moderato 


r  r,  i  r  r 


a  tempo 


m 


m 


^ 


m 


m 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


ON  PLAGIARISM 

In  one  of  his  beautiful  "Essays  in  Little"  Andrew 
Lang  very  wisely  observes  that  "there  are  charges, 
that  of  plagiarisTriy  for  example^  which  can  never  be 
disproven,  even  if  any  mortal  ever  listened  to  a 
refutation."  This  quotation  will,  I  trust,  help  to 
forestall  any  serious  disappointment  to  the  reader 
if  he  finds  this  discussion  as  inconclusive  as,  from 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  it  is  bound  to  be. 
The  foregoing  quotation  reminds  the  present  writer 
of  two  lawsuits  between  composers  over  matters  of 
plagiarism;  if  the  conflict  between  the  judicial  and 
the  moral  law  (the  categorical  imperative)  were  not 
confirmed  by  its  great  age  and  its  frequency,  the  de- 
cisions in  these  two  suits  would  suflSce  to  render  it 
obvious. 

One  of  the  two  battle-grounds  was,  some  years  ago, 
in  Germany.  The  case  was  handled  by  lawyers  and 
judges  who,  as  a  class  or  type  of  men,  see  life  only 
through  the  judicial  telescope  and  as  a  rule  know 
too  little  of  its  contingencies  and  haphazards  to 
make  allowance  for  such  a  thing  as  a  "chance 
resemblance" — especially  in  music.  The  perfectly 
innocent  defendant  was  fined  and  the  sale  and  public 
performance  of  his  work  was  forbidden,  although 
the  resemblance  in  question  occurred  in  only  two 
measures  in  the  middle  of  the  piece  and  resulted 
[  15  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

from   a  perfectly   legitimate   development   of   the 
defendanfs  own  theme. 

The  other  suit  took  place  in  this  country  and  was 
decided  by  a  jury,  but  the  verdict  was,  nevertheless 
given  to  the  wrong  man:  the  manifest  culprit  was 
acquitted.  The  gas-fitter,  boiler-maker,  car-con- 
ductor, waiter,  etc.,  that  sat  in  the  jury  box,  how- 
ever highly  to  be  respected  as  useful  members  of 
human  society,  as  citizens  and  gentlemen — their 
knowledge  of  music  ought  not  have  been  expected 
to  be  adequate  to  the  discerning  of  a  plagiarism 
which  was  undoubtable,  although  it  was  disguised 
or — as  we  sometimes  say — "dodged." 
And  of  such  "dodges"  there  is  no  end.  Any  tyro, 
conversant  with  the  technic  of  harmonization  and 
counterpoint,  can  crib  entire  pages  from  a  master- 
piece and  disguise  them  in  such  ways  as  to  make  it 
impossible  for  an  untrained  eye  and  ear  to  recognize 
the  fraud.  He  can  produce  the  changes  by  altering 
the  time,  rhythm,  harmony,  phrasing  of  the  theme, 
or  by  inverting,  enlarging  or  foreshortening  it.  He 
can  thus  "contrive"  a  piece  of  music  that  may  jingle 
pleasantly  and  still  express  nothing  imaginative  or 
emotional  because  neither  his  imagination  nor  his 
emotion  were  in  the  least  active  in  the  "making" 
of  it.  He  felt  nothing  and  could,  therefore,  do  no 
more  than  put  into  artificially  changed — and  feebler 
— terms  what  was  originally  an  utterance  of  another 
and  better  man's  innermost  soul. 
[  16  ] 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


The  technic  of  reshaping  a  musical  thought  is,  in 
itself,  not  only  legitimate;  it  not  only  underlies  such 
variation  writing  as  Handel,  Haydn,  Mozart,  Beet- 
hoven, Schubert,  Schumann,  Chopin,  Brahms, 
Tchaikovsky,  and  others,  have  given  to  the  world, 
but  it  is  also  one  of  the  most  powerful  means  of 
dramatic  expression  in  opera  and  symphony.  For 
illustration  of  this  we  need  not  go  back  to  Beet- 
hoven's "Fifth,"  where  the  opening  notes  run  in  a 
variety  of  shapes  through  all  the  four  movements. 
Much  more  recently  we  find  it,  for  example,  in 
Bizet's  "Carmen,"  where  the  motive  of  Fate  appears 
in  every  act  and  in  many  different  forms  and  moods. 
Who  would  suspect  the  motive  of  "Fate"  in  this 
light-hearted,  dance-like  strain : 


Allegretto 


-^ 

Yet  it  appears  with  Carmen's  first  step  on  the  stage 
and  follows  her  in  a  number  of  disguises  through  the 
whole  sad  story  until,  at  the  end,  it  is  thundered 
forth  as  a  consummation  of  thrilling  tragedy,  in 
slow  J^  time: 

Andante 


Wagner,  too,  was  a  great  master  in  the  recasting  of 

motives  to  suit  the  dramatic  situation.  His  motives, 

I  17] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

as  such,  are  often  of  an  almost  naive  simplicity;  but 
what  he  does  with  them,  what  he  extracts  and  de- 
velops from  them — that  is  not  merely  another 
story :  it  is  the  story  that  tells  the  difference  between 
a  master's  purposed  alteration  of  his  own  theme  and  a 
dodged  or  disguised  plagiarism. 
Ruskm  said  that  "originality  is  not  newness,  but 
genuineness"  by  which  he  meant,  no  doubt,  that  a 
thought  evolved  from  an  artist's  mood  and  feeling 
bears  the  family  traits  of  its  parent  so  plainly  that 
no  "chance  resemblance,"  however  striking,  can 
contest  its  "genuineness." 

There  is,  e.g.,  an  unmistakable  resemblance  between 
this  old  German  children's  song: 

Allegretto 


and  the  well  known  "Happy  Farmer"  by  Schumann: 

Con  spirit© 


yet  no  musician  ever  regarded  the  resemblance  as 
anything  but  a  funny  coincidence,  because — aside 
from  Schumann's  inexhaustible  wealth  of  musical 
ideas,  which  made  cribbing  quite  unnecessary  to 
him — his  version,  with  its  two  sustained  notes,  is 
so  masculine,  so  "grown-up,"  so  intrinsically  differ- 
ent from  the  rhythmically  monotonous,  childlike 
■    f  18  1 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


prattling  of  the  song,  as  to  silence  even  the  most 
malevolent  reminiscence-hunter.  (Reminiscence- 
hunting  is,  even  at  best,  an  ignoble  sport.) 
A  still  more  striking  example  of  chance  resemblance 
we  find  in  the  following  three  quotations;  but  before 
charging  Mendelssohn  and  Wagner  with  so  plebeian 
a  thing  as  plagiarism,  let  us  remember  that  these 
two  masters  had  absolute  command  over  all  the 
means  of  concealing  a  "loan,"  if  it  had  been  one; 
that  the  very  closeness  of  the  parallelism  attests 
their  innocence  and  does  it  better  than  a  more 
remote  likeness  could  have  done: 


Beetboveo:  Eroica  Symphony 


It  SO  happens  that  these  three  notes 


are  the  chief  motive  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  Op.  Ill, 
of  Schubert's  "Atlas,"  of  Liszt's  "Les  I'reludes," 
and  of  no  inconsiderable  number  of  other  compo- 
sitions. Speaking,  however,  only  of  these  three, 
the  moods  expressed  in  them  through  these  three 
notes  have  absolutely  nothing  in  common  and  there- 
by furnish  "internal  evidence"  against  any  sus- 
f  19  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

picion  of  plagiarism — which  charge  has,  in  fact, 
never  been  made. 

At  this  juncture  we  should  reflect  that  human 
language  is  constantly  changing.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  politico-historical  events,  of  scientific 
discoveries  and  inventions,  or  of  changes  in  theo- 
logical or  natural  philosophy,  certain  forms  of  ex- 
pression, spoken  or  written,  come  into  general  use. 
After  a  while  they  die  out  and  new  ones  take  their 
places.  These  changes  affect  not  only  rhetoric  and 
oratory,  but  are  occurring  in  all  forms  of  human 
expression  and,  hence,  also  in  all  branches  of  art. 
If  we  should  have  to  say  of  a  certain  melody  by  a 
living  composer  that  it  was  of  a  Mozartian  cast, 
we  should  not  have  Mozart,  himself,  in  mind,  but 
rather  the  style  and  manner  of  musical  idiom  that 
was  general  in  Mozart's  time.  The  same  applies, 
of  course,  to  any  other  great  composer's  period  of 
life,  and  it  explains,  partly  at  least,  the  sway  of  the 
masters  over  the  musical  parlance  of  their  time. 
Their  mode  of  expression  reflected  the  spirit  of  their 
time,  the  genius  of  their  people.  That  their  work 
retained  its  art-value  for  many  subsequent  gener- 
ations and  for  all  the  world  is  not  due  to  its  vo- 
cabulary, but  to  the  thoughts,  to  the  world-view 
for  which  the  musical  wording  served  merely  as  a 
vehicle.  However  highly  we  may  still  think  of  the 
Rambler  papers  and  of  Rasselas,  we  could  not 
venture  nowadays  to  speak  or  write  in  good  Dr. 
[  20  1 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


Johnson's  style  without  being  charged  with  affecta- 
tion. And  yet,  in  his  day,  his  style  of  writing  was 
general  among  his  literary  contemporaries  without 
exposing  them  to  the  reproach  of  plagiarism.  It 
is  very  similar  in  music  and  in  all  other  branches 
of  art. 

A  few  years  ago  the  present  writer  bought  from  one 
of  the  houquinistes  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay  an  old  re- 
print of  the  Gesta  Romanorumy  the  oldest  book  of 
Christian  legends  in  existence,  and  he  found  in  it 
the  entire  plot  of — Shakespeare's  Merchant  of 
Venice^  complete  in  every  detail  and  told  in  a  little 
over  five  pages.  Does  this  discovery  (made  by  others 
long  ago,  by  the  way)  detract  one  iota  from  Shake- 
speare's masterly  play?  Are  not  all,  or  nearly  all, 
the  plots  of  his  plays  taken  from  other  sources? 
And  can  we,  because  of  this,  call  Shakespeare  a 
**play"-giarist?  (Excuse  the  pun,  dear  reader!)  If 
two  artists  should  happen  to  paint  the  same  land- 
scape or  a  portrait  of  the  same  person,  would  the 
second  one  be  a  plagiarist?  If  not,  why  not?  Be- 
cause, in  spite  of  the  identical  features,  the  pictures 
would  still  differ  from  each  other  and  the  difference 
would  consist  in  the  personal  conception  of  the 
subject — in  that  which  each  of  the  two  artists  saw 
in  the  subject. 

By  this  time  the  reader  might  ask:  If  all  this  is  not 
plagiarism,  what,  then,  does  constitute  it? — Let 
us  see. 

[  21  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

A  genuine  pearl  is  never  without  some  slight — what 
shall  we  call  it?  It  is  not  a  "defect,"  not  an  "im- 
perfection," but  merely  some  slight  irregularity  of 
shape  or  color  or  both;  a  "deviation"  from  the 
regular  which,  however,  gives  character  to  the  pearl. 
The  imitation  pearl  is  always  perfectly  round  and 
tediously  even  in  color;  it  is,  in  one  sense,  better 
than  the  genuine  pearl,  but — it  lacks  life,  character. 
Just  so  it  is  in  music,  where  a  plagiarism  is  always 
smooth,  but  lacking  that  mysterious  something 
which  made  the  original  "say  something."  The 
plagiarist  is  a  thief,  and  therefore  it  must  be  his 
first  endeavor  to  cover  his  tracks  by  making  some 
alteration  in  the  unessential  part  of  what  he  stole, 
to  use  some  disguise  in  order  to  be  protected  from 
the  law — a  sort  of  musical  "alibi."  We  often  recog- 
nize the  fraud  by  its  eiffect  upon  our  mind,  for,  if 
we  happen  to  know  the  original,  the  essential  part 
of  the  fraud  will  remind  us  of  something  which  at 
that  moment  we  cannot  place,  but  which  produces 
the  distinct  feeling  of  having  heard  the  just  pre- 
sented thought  before  and  more  convincingly  ex- 
pressed. So,  we  rummage  in  our  memory  (with 
some  irritation,  too),  instead  of  listening  to  the 
remainder  of  the  piece  in  progress.  To  refer  once 
more  to  the  metaphorical  imitation  pearl  and  what 
it  lacked,  the  parallel  with  plagiarism  is  made 
rather  clear  by  G.  B.  Shaw  in  his  "Dramatic  Opin- 
ions," where  he  speaks  with  an  earnestness  some- 
what unusual  with  him.  Says  he: 
[  22  1 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


"In  all  the  arts  there  is  a  distinction  between  the 
mere  physical  artistic  faculty — consisting  of  a  very 
fine  sense  of  color,  tone,  form,  rhythmic  motion 
and  so  on — and  that  supreme  sense  of  humanity 
which  alone  can  raise  the  art  work,  created  by  the 
physical  artistic  faculty,  into  a  convincing  present- 
ment of  life." 

It  is  more  than  doubtful  that  he  could  have  found 
so  profound  a  truth  if  he  were  not  the  musical  con- 
noisseur that  he  is,  for  his  words  apply  with  quite 
particular  force  to  music.  It  is  this  "supreme  sense 
of  humanity"  which  explains  the  longevity  of  great 
masterpieces  of  all  kinds  and  which,  by  the  very 
nature  of  it,  cannot  obtain  in  a  plagiarism.  As 
Horace  Traubel  puts  it:  "Some  music  comes  from 
nature,  from  life,  and  some  comes  from  other  music." 
Now  it  does  happen  to  perfectly  honest  men  that  a 
thought  occurs  to  them  which,  in  the  best  of  faith, 
they  take  for  their  own;  it  may,  in  fact,  be  genuinely 
original  with  them;  but  there  are  certain  phrases  in 
music  which  enjoy  so  wide  a  popularity  that  a 
prudent  writer  will  and  must  avoid  any  resemblance 
with  them  as  carefully  as  the  architect  has  to  avoid 
lines  that  suggest  a  human  face.  No  dramatist  or 
novelist  could  afford  to  let  one  of  his  characters  say : 
"To  continue  this  earthly  life  or  not  to  continue  it, 

[  23  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

that  is  the  uncertainty  in  my  mind."  No  more  could 
a  musician  allow  a  Waltz  like  this: 

Tempo  diValse 


|a^^g^^^g44=H^ 


to  go  into  print,  however  certain  he  might  feel  that 
he  had  no  thought  of  Bizet.  Resignation  may  come 
hard  but — the  waste-basket  is  the  only  place  for 
that  Waltz. 

Ah,  it's  a  long  chapter,  that  of  plagiarism.  Here  is 
still  another  phase  of  it!  There  are  cases  where  a 
really  good  idea  occurs  to  one  who  is  utterly  unable 
to  develop  it;  to  one  who  through  lack  of  talent  or 
learning  (usually  both)  is  incapable  of  perceiving 
and  realizing  its  artistic  possibilities.  If  he  has  hit 
upon  such  an  idea,  as  a  blind  hen  hits  upon  a  grain 
of  wheat  in  the  sand,  and  some  other  man,  who  is 
mentally  and  by  innate  talent  equipped,  sees  and 
feels  what  to^the  first  one  was  a  blank,  there  is  no 
reason  why  this  second  one  should  not  regard  the 
idea  as  he  does  any  other  bit  of  audible  nature  and 
do  with  it  what  was  not  within  the  power  of  the 
first  one  to  do.  This  phase  of  plagiarism  is  very 
aptly  analyzed  by  C.  G.  Colton  (in  "Lacon"): 
* 'There  are  but  two  modes  to  obtain  celebrity  in 
authorship:  discovery  and  conquest.  Discovery,  by 
saying  what  none  others  have  said,  with  the  proviso 
that  it  be  true  as  well  as  new;  and  conquest,  by 
[  24  1 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


saying  what  others  have  said,  but  with  more  point, 
brevity  and  brightness." 

Some  such  idea  of  "conquest"  Handel  may  have 
"felt  in  his  bones"  when  he  "appropriated"  an  idea 
of  Buononcini's  and,  having  had  his  attention 
called  to  it,  said:  "Iss  it?  Veil,  it's  much  too  goot 
for  him  [here  follows  an  adjective  that  is  better 
suppressed],  he  ditt  not  know  what  to  do  mit  it!" 
So  we  see  (although  stealing  is  stealing,  no  matter 
how  cleverly  done)  that  theft  changes  its  aspect 
considerably  if  the  thief  can  make  of  the  stolen 
object  something  better  than  the  former  owner  was 
able  to  make;  in  other  words,  the  thief  must  have 
the  power  to  keep  what  he  stole !  We  know  that  this 
proviso  has  been  of  no  small  importance  in  the 
building  of  Empires;  those  that  could  not  keep  their 
cribbings  had  to  return  them,  as  we  have  seen  only 
recently;  others  were  somehow  able  to  keep  theirs. 
During  one  of  the  first  rehearsals  of  "Die  Walkiire" 
in  Bayreuth  Wagner  said  with  the  utmost  candor 
to  Liszt:  "Papa,  now  you  will  hear  something  from 
your  St.  Elizabeth"  (or  was  it  St.  Cecilia?),  and 
Liszt  replied:  "Really?  Oh  well,  then  it  will  at 
least  be  heard."  An  absolute  parallel  with  Handel! 
Wagner  had  found  in  Liszt's  work  an  idea  which 
its  creator  had  underestimated,  something  which 
Wagner  regarded  as  particularly  worthy  to  live  if 
it  were  fully  worked  out  or  elaborated.  So,  he  did 
it  and  "kept"  what  he  stole  in  the  wonderful 
f  25  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

symphonic  introduction  to  the  third  scene  of  the 
second  act.  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  in  the 
musical  significance  of  these  two  masters  there  was 
not  anything  like  the  difference  that  was  between 
Gluck  and  Piccini  or  between  Handel  and  Buo- 
noncini;  still,  by  some  few  degrees  Wagner  was  the 
greater  of  the  two  and  hence  he  became  by  "con- 
quest" the  owner  of  one  of  Liszt's  ideas.  Beati 
possidentes  I 

A  privilege  which  was  generally  thought  to  be  re- 
served for  governments — the  privilege  of  "eminent 
domain"  (the  controlling  of  personal  property  for 
public  uses  by  making  compensation) — genius  seems 
to  have  "adopted," — and  made  compensation  by 
teaching  the  former  owner  a  lesson,  showing  him 
how  blind  he  was  to  the  value  of  his  idea.  Of  course, 
the  assuming  of  this  privilege  may  be  sternly  dis- 
approved by  stiff-necked  moralists  of  the  Puritan 
type;  yet  even  they  would  instantly  change  their 
attitude  if  the  case  were  reversed.  If  some  little 
Nobody  should  steal  from  a  man  of  recognized 
genius  he  would  be  immediately  caught  and  punished 
by — hilarious  laughter,  in  which  even  the  unco  guid 
would  heartily  join.  Thus,  when  Genius  steals,  he 
commits  a  sly  little  roguery,  for  he  subsequently 
establishes  his  right  of  possession  by  the  magnifi- 
cent use  he  makes  of  his  "annexation";  but  when 
Mr.  Tom  Noddy  steals,  he  is  simply  a  fool.  The  one, 
single  silver  spoon  among  his  tin  tableware  will 
f  26  1 


ON  PLAGIARISM 


arouse  suspicion  at  once;  besides,  it  bears  the  "hall- 
mark" of  genius  which  will  betray  the  thief,  and 
before  he  knows  it  the  whole  police  force  of  musical 
criticism  will  be  after  him. 

All  this  is,  unfortunately,  very  inconclusive;  but 
this  was  foretold  in  the  opening  paragraph.  Still, 
Andrew  Lang*s  statement  there,  that  a  charge  of 
plagiarism  cannot  be  disproveUy  may  open  a  path 
toward  a  partial  conclusion;  for  what  has  never 
been  charged  need  not  be  disproven.  Thus  the  whole 
matter  seems  to  hinge  upon  the  question  whether 
a  charge  has  or  has  not  been  made. 
We  saw  that  both  Mendelssohn  and  Wagner  used 
an  idea  which  had  first  occurred  to  Beethoven  and 
was  well  developed  by  him;  and  yet  no  accuser  has 
ever  risen  to  charge  the  former  two  with  plagiarism. 
Why  not?  Because  the  world  was  convinced  of  the 
integrity  of  these  men.  They  have,  concerning  their 
inventive  power,  satisfied  the  world  to  so  high  a 
degree  that  in  case  of  a  similitude  in  melody  it  has 
accepted  it  as  a  pure  * 'chance  resemblance"  and  has 
taken  for  granted  that  the  idea  in  question  was 
genuinely  original  with  each  of  them.  It  leaves  the 
matter  of  plagiarism  entirely  to  the  judgment  of 
the  musical  world. 

A  Spanish  proverb  says:  "One  man  makes  charcoal 
from  his  wood  and  another  man  carves  a  Saint  out 
of  it."  The  reproach  of  plagiarism  is  either  silenced 
by  the  fact  that  the  plagiator  has  expounded  an 
[  27  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

idea  better  than  its  originator  did,  or  there  has  been 
no  accusation  made  because  the  resemblance  has 
been  for  good  reasons  accepted  as  fortuitous.  No 
accuser,  no  conviction !  No  charge,  no  refutation ! 


28 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 


The  author's  authority  seems  to  be  axiomatic;  a 
self-evident  fact  about  which  nothing  more  is  to  be 
said.  For  a  lifetime  one  has  heard  with  tireless 
repetition  such  maxims  as  these: 

"Play  what  is  written!" 

"Play  in  time!"  (Dear,  well-meaning 
Schumann !) 

"The  author  knew  what  he  wanted  to  say; 
had  he  wished  it  different  he  would  have 
said  so,  black  on  white!" 

And  so  forth,  ad  infinitum  et  nauseam. 
But  when  scrutinized  closely  we  find  that  the 
author's  authority  is  not  nearly  so  self-evident  as  it 
looks.  We  find  it,  indeed,  very  limited;  we  also  feel 
that  its  limitations  rest  upon  the  very  nature  and 
history  of  Music  and  of  musical  script  and  instru- 
ments. And  we  discover  many  opportunities  for 
the  interpreter  to  exercise  legitimate  criticism  upon 
the  author's  clerical  craftsmanship. 
First  of  all  we  must  recognize  that  the  composer's 
artistry  consists  of  two  distinct  and  widely  different 
parts:  the  composition  as  it  is  conceived  and  worked 
out  by  the  mind,  and  its  communication  to  the 
world  in  writing.  These  two  parts  are  supposed  to 
be  in  perfect  balance,  the  latter  entirely  adequate 
to  the  former;  but  it  is  very  seldom,  perhaps  never, 
f  31  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

so.  This  is  because  the  imagination,  the  fancy,  the 
mental  and  emotional  concepts,  form  themselves 
in  the  mind  with  absolute  freedom  and  in  sovereign 
indifference  to  any  restriction  of  a  practical  or  tech- 
nical nature,  while  the  graphic  demonstration  of 
these  creations,  on  paper,  is  quite  different.  The 
slow  and  tedious  process  of  writing  is  carried  on 
under  completely  changed  conditions;  the  furor 
creans  has  subsided;  the  ideal  creations  of  the  ec- 
static mind  have  now  to  be  soberly  subjected  to  the 
established  modes  and  signs  of  musical  script;  the 
creator  turns  communicator  and  into  this,  often 
wearisome,  occupation  there  enter  considerations 
of  all  sorts,  retarding  his  advance  with  a  frequency 
proportionate  to  the  originality  of  his  work.  Har- 
monic progressions  that  sounded  inexpressibly 
smooth  and  sweet  to  his  **inner"  ear,  have  now  to  be 
logically  reasoned  out;  the  limitations  of  the  instru- 
ment must  be  thought  of;  technical  difficulties  have 
to  be  kept  within  bounds  that  they  may  not  out- 
weigh the  thought-material;  in  enharmonic  occur- 
rences the  tonality  must  be  selected;  time,  simple 
or  complex,  must  be  decided  upon;  new  thoughts 
frequently  require  new  graphic  symbols  or,  at  least, 
new  ways  of  employing  old  ones,  and  these  are  not 
always  ready  at  hand — in  short,  there  is  a  multi- 
plicity of  considerations  entering  into  the  clerical 
part  of  musical  composition;  considerations  which 
either  threaten  to  blur  the  ideal  concept  in  the 
[  32  ] 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 

author's  mind  or — in  his  anxiety  to  keep  it  clear 
and  the  consequent  haste  of  fastening  it  on  the  paper 
— they  often  lead  to  imperfect  graphic  demon- 
stration. How  far  this  imperfection  will  be  lessened 
depends  upon  the  care  the  author  bestows  subse- 
quently upon  his  manuscript.  This,  however — I  may 
say — differs  with  every  author,  and  in  this  matter 
some  of  our  best  masters  have  been  the  most  careless. 
The  idolaters  of  the  letter  (which,  on  good  authority, 
"killeth") ;  those  who,  for  reasons  not  too  far  to  seek, 
decline  to  look  beyond  the  letter;  those  pious  folk 
say  that  it  is  just  in  the  writing  where  the  masters 
of  music  have  shown  their  greatness.  Ah  no,  dear 
brethren!  it  was  in  the  soaring  power  of  their  fancy, 
in  the  depth  of  their  feeling,  in  their  expansive  grasp 
upon  life,  in  the  nobiHty  and  grandeur  of  their  con- 
cepts— and  not  in  their  musical  grammar,  syntax, 
and  orthography. 

The  discrepancy  between  the  artist  and  the  clerical 
craftsman  in  the  same  person  is  often  very  marked 
and,  indeed,  the  greater  the  artist  the  harder  he 
finds  it  sometimes  to  make  the  craftsman  in  him 
keep  pace  with  the  artist. 

At  this  point  we  must  make  a  digression  in  order  to 
guard  against  unfit  comparisons  and  false  parallels. 
With  regard  to  the  visual  demonstration  of  his 
imaginings  the  composer  must  not  be  likened  to 
the  painter,  sculptor,  or  architect,  all  of  whom 
would  be  utter  failures  if  their  powers  of  demon- 
[  33  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

stration  were  inadequate  to  convey  the  creations 
of  their  mind.  The  graphic  artists  are  their  own 
interpreters;  no  one  stands  between  their  thoughts 
and  the  public.  The  composer's  work,  on  the  other 
hand,  remains  as  mute  as  a  picture  in  the  dark  until 
the  interpreter's  skill  reveals  its  message  to  us. 
This  makes  a  most  profound  difference !  The  worker 
is  the  visual  Arts  whose  handicraft  is  unable  to 
express  his  idea  is  a  bungler,  for  at  his  disposal 
is  the  whole  world  with  its  numberless  forms  and 
shapes  from  which  he  not  only  selects  his  models, 
but  to  which,  from  their  very  inception,  his  ideas  are 
inseparably  attached.  The  composer,  on  the  other 
hand,  molds  into  audible  shapes  only  the  psychic 
essences  of  life  which  he  cannot  tether  to  any 
commonly  understood  object  (sky,  plant,  animal, 
windmill,  etc.),  and  for  which  he  can,  on  that 
account,  find  neither  model  nor  hitching-post  out- 
side of  the  property-room  of  his  own  mind  and 
memory.  Since,  however,  there  is  hardly  anything 
so  diflScult  for  our  memory  as  to  retain  a  mood; 
and  as  in  this  respect  our  memory  is  fickle  even  at 
its  best;  moreover,  because  the  slightest  wavering 
of  the  mood-memory  changes  the  mood-picture, 
the  sketching  of  its  essential  features  has  to  be  done 
in  such  haste  and  in  so  few  lines,  that  we  are  obliged 
to  search  the  composer's  handiwork  for  its  artistic 
meaning  much  more  deeply  than  that  of  the  graphic 
[  34  1 


THE  AUTHORS  AUTHORITY 

artist.  And,  in  turn,  we  have  to  be  more  lenient  with 
the  composer. 

True,  there  are  points  of  contact,  of  resemblance 
and  even  of  equality,  between  the  workers  in  the 
visual  Arts  and  the  composer — for  in  the  last 
analysis  all  Art  is  one — but  in  this  particular 
premise,  in  the  greater  separateness  of  the  creation 
of  a  musical  work  from  its  demonstration  in  script, 
he  differs  from  them  and  must,  in  consequence,  be 
considered  apart. 

The  conservative  player  assumes  that  the  written 
image  of  a  composition  is  perfect  in  every  way.  This 
assumption  is  both  pious  and  righteous;  but  inas- 
much as  it  implies  that  the  composer  has  left 
nothing  unsaid,  nothing  to  ponder  over,  nothing  to 
infer,  it  is  also  extremely — easy!  It  relegates  the 
musical  instrument  to  the  level  of  the  typewriting 
machine.  The  liberal  interpreter  takes  the  com- 
poser's script  or  print  more  in  an  indicative,  inti- 
mating, suggesting  sense  and,  having  honestly 
searched  for  the  ultimate  musical  meaning  of  the 
composition,  he  hesitates  not  to  draw  at  times  upon 
his  larger  instrumental  experience  to  supply  the 
auxiliaries  of  the  composition  with  such  little 
touches  as  will  impart  to  them  force,  clarity,  or 
whatever  quality  it  may  be  that  the  composer's 
handicraft  fell  short  of  expressing.  This  occasional 
shortcoming  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  composer's 
interpretative  technic  is  seldom,  if  ever,  as  rich  in 
f  35  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

resources  as  that  of  the  artistic  interpreter — unless 
he  happens  to  be  also  a  virtuoso  hors  ligney  as  was 
the  exceptional  case  of  Chopin,  Liszt,  and  a  very 
few  others  in  the  last  century. 

An  interesting  and  rather  amusing  interchange  of 
attitude  between  the  conservatives  and  liberals 
takes  place  whenever  the  rights  and  privileges  of 
the  composer  with  regard  to  fixed  rules  and  laws  are 
touched  upon.  Here  the  conservative  who  re- 
nounced all  freedom  for  himself,  accords  it  to  the 
composer  in  boundless  measure.  The  strict  con- 
stitutionalist becomes  an  advocate  of  absolutism! 
— and  in  such  a  degree  as  to  respect  and  revere  even 
the  most  flagrant  misspellings  and  misprints  as 
evidences  of  genius.  Not  so  the  liberal;  he  stands 
on  his  constitutional  rights !  He  believes  that  every 
sincere  work  of  Art  carries  its  own  laws  of  develop- 
ment in  the  very  thought-germs  from  which  it 
sprung,  and  though  he  also  regards  the  composer  as 
the  ordainer  of  his  own  laws,  he  demands  that  this 
lawmaker  ^'keep  his  self-made  laws" — as  Burton 
says — unless  he  shows  good  reason  for  suspending 
them !  He  insists  that  the  author,  having  stated  the 
enunciation  of  a  motive  in  a  certain  way,  shall 
abide  by  this  unless  he  consciously  purposes  a 
variantCy  which  is  easily  distinguishable  from  a  slip- 
shod reiteration. 

The  composer  deals  directly,  not  with  the  audience, 

but  with  the  interpreter,  and  the  trained  mind  of 

[  36  1 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 

the  latter  can  safely  be  assumed  to  meet  the  com- 
poser's intention  with  a  fair  degree  of  understanding 
and  even  with  divination.  But  the  interpreter  deals 
with  an  audience!  In  the  themes  and  motives  of  a 
composition  he  has  to  represent  clearly  defined  and 
easily  distinguishable  types,  the  recurrence  of  which 
an  intelligent  auditor  must  be  enabled  to  recognize 
instantly,  for  these  recurrences  are  the  supreme 
medium  of  conveying  a  composition  to  the  auditor's 
mind  and  they  require — especially  in  their  earlier 
reiterations  or  when  the  reiterations  are  infrequent 
— the  closest  possible  resemblance  to  their  previous 
manner  of  presentation. 

It  is  here  that  the  contest  between  conservatives 
and  liberals  is  bitterest.  The  one  recognizes  no  law 
to  bridle  the  composer's  caprice,  to  amend  his  neg- 
ligence, or  to  correct  his  mistakes.  The  other 
reflects  that  the  composer  is  human;  that  his  pen 
may  slip;  that  he  is  prone  to  make  a  slight  change 
in  his  script  (without  intending  it)  whenever  he 
neglects  to  look  up  his  previous  statement,  and  that 
any  trained  musician  with  a  modicum  of  artistic 
feeling  can  distinguish  with  fair  certainty  whether 
the  change  was  intended,  esthetically  conditioned, 
dynamically  needed,  or  required  for  necessary 
variety's  sake.  If  the  change  was  unintentional, 
however,  he  feels  empowered  to  give  the  composer 
a  friendly  nudge  and  say  to  him:  "You  made  a 
little  mistake  here.  You  did  not  previously  order 
[  37  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

just  this  articulation  of  this  phrase.  I  understand 
perfectly  that  you  coin  'your  own  words  and  that 
you  may  pronounce  your  self-coined  words  as  you 
please.  But  you  must  stick  to  your  pronunciation 
if  you  wish  people  to  understand  what  you  mean!" 
And  he  unhesitatingly  reestablishes  the  original 
version.  For  it  is  much  more  important  that  the 
audience  should  recognize  a  previously  stated 
motive  at  its  recurrence  than  that  the  composer's 
pen  should  be  proclaimed  infallible. 
A  pertinent  illustration  of  this  may  be  found  in 
Beethoven's  Sonata  Op.  14,  No.  1,  where  the 
second  subject  appears  to  consist  of  five  legato 
notes,  followed  by  six  semi-staccatos  which  lead  to  a 
climax  and  a  close  with  another  four  legato  notes. 


This  change  from  legato  to  semi-staccato  and  back  to 
legato  is  strikingly  characteristic.  Through  its  being 
flanked  by  the  two  legatos,  this  semi-staccato  be- 
comes the  chiefest  feature  of  the  theme,  because  its 
melodic  curve  and  its  rhythm — while,  of  course,  not 
commonplace — are  very  simple.  Through  this 
semi-staccato  the  theme  receives  something  like  an 
intermittent  reaching  for  a  height,  something  like  a 
gasping  for  breath,  which  an  uninterrupted  legato 
could  never  impart  to  it.  Yet,  in  the  immediately 
following  reiteration  in  the  bass,  Beethoven  leaves 
[  38  1 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 

this  strongest  feature  out  and  marks  the  entire 
phrase  legato.  Why?  Did  he  mean  to  heighten  its 
effect  dynamically?  If  so,  he  surely  chose  the  con- 
trary road.  Or  did  he,  perhaps,  mean  to  vary  the 
appearance  of  the  theme  at  its  very  first  reiteration? 
That  would  have  been  an  esthetic  blunder  which 
Beethoven  (of  all  men)  could  never  consciously 
commit.  But  if  we  assume  that  he  just  forgot  to  put 
the  same  dots  under  the  second  slur  that  stand 
under  the  first,  we  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  and  still 
do  no  more  than  he  would  have  done  had  anybody 
called  his  attention  to  it.  The  whole  matter  seems 
minute  and  of  but  little  importance  to  the  compo- 
sition, but  it  makes  a  difference  to  the  player,  and 
from  this  difference  the  auditor's  understanding 
will  derive  considerable  assistance. 
Such  cases  of  palpable — hush!  what  shall  we  call 
them! — well,  they  are  by  no  means  infrequent  in 
the  best  piano-literature.  It  should  have  been  the 
task  of  the  makers  of  "editions"  to  correct  them, 
but  they  have  not  always  done  so.  Perhaps  they 
did  not  notice  them  and  perhaps  they  were  of  the 
class  of  hero-worshippers  who  worship  the  wrong 
quality  in  their  hero.  Is  it,  in  this  case,  not  far  more 
reasonable  to  consider  that  this  Sonata  is  an  early 
work;  that  it  is  of  a  cheerful,  jovial,  and  not  very 
emotional  character;  and  that  it  furnishes  no  ground 
for  suspecting  mysteries  that  a  good  musician  can- 
not easily  solve? 

[  39  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Another  matter  in  which  the  artistic  interpreter 
should  be  allowed  a  free  hand  concerns  the  ever- 
recurring  trouble  about  the  embellishments  in 
antique  music.  To  start  with,  we  must  remember 
that  the  various  turns,  mordents,  pralltrillers,  up- 
wards and  downwards,  curlycues  and  whirligigs, 
were  purely  a  matter  of  fashion  and  that  this  fashion 
arose  from  the  feeble,  quickly  vanishing  tone  and 
the  extremely  small  dynamic  range  of  the  whilom 
harpsichords  and  clavichords.  Still,  the  antique 
masters  themselves,  in  wise  appreciation  of  the 
mutability  of  fashion,  left  us  no  hard  and  fast  rules 
for  the  execution  of  their  little  "manners,"  as  they 
called  them.  It  was  the  much  smaller  successors 
of  the  old  giants  who — horribile  dictu — "systema- 
tized" the  embellishments!  And  they  did  not  say, 
as  the  masters  would  have  said,  "you  may**;  no, 
they  said,  "you  must  do  this  or  that  in  this  way  and 
only  in  this  way." 

Now,  we  do  not  revere  our  ancestors  because  of 
their  costumes.  We  regard  the  portrait  of  Washing- 
ton with  respect  not  because  but  in  spite  of  his 
powdered  wig  and  queue.  Our  respect  is  based  upon 
our  gratitude  for  those  of  his  achievements  which 
have  retained  their  value  to  uSy  however  often  the 
fashions  have  changed  since  his  day.  It  is  the  same 
with  antique  music.  What  we  admire  in  the  "Well- 
tempered"  is  the  unassailable  originality,  the  melodic 
beauty,  the  refined  selection  and  disposition  of 
f  40  1 


THE  AUTHORS  AUTHORITY 

harmony,  the  wealth  of  rhythms,  the  variety  and 
clarity  of  forms,  the  consummate  contrapuntal 
mastery — in  short,  all  those  qualities  which  we 
would  admire  just  as  much  in  a  composer  of  to-day, 
were  there  one  who  possessed  them.  We  bow  to  its 
'permanent y  but  not  its  temporary  truths.  To  rank 
the  thousand  and  one  little  gewgaws — these  merest 
concessions  to  fashion — among  the  enduring  truths 
in  those  old  works  of  Art  is  a  grievous  error. 
It  is  true  that  there  are  occasions  in  certain  melodies 
where  an  embellishment  is  called  for  by  reasons 
higher  than  fashion;  where,  so  to  speak,  it  forms 
part  of  the  melody;  where  its  omission  would  make 
the  phrase  either  bare,  blunt  or  prosy.  There  are 
also  embellishments  needed  to  imply  (or  affect?) 
the  historic  style;  but  for  this  debatable  purpose  a 
very  few  of  them  will  suffice  and  in  many  pieces — 
(yes,  dear  reader,  even  by  John  Sebastian!) — a 
goodly  number  of  them  may  safely  be  omitted.  A 
glance  at  any  slow  movement  by  Bach,  say,  the 
fine,  poetic  Andante  from  the  Italian  Concerto, 
will  find  this  view  supported.  The  very  first  note, 
that  long  drawn  out  Ay  standing  like  a  pillar  that 
supports  a  fine  sweep  of  arched  structure  filled  with 
the  finest  lace-like  tracery  emerging  from  the  pillar; 
it  should  not  be  marred  by  the  flippant  mordent 
which  caps  it.  The  mordent  is — on  the  modern 
piano — offensive  to  good  taste.  When  Master 
Sebastian  wrote  it  down  it  was  not  offensive, 
[411 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

because  on  the  old  clavichord  this  mordent  re- 
sembled a  mere  vibrato  (as  we  hear  it — only  too 
often — on  stringed  instruments)  and  it  had  the 
effect  of  adding  both  length  and  intensity  to  this 
initial  tone;  but  on  the  modern  pianoforte  its  effect 
is  precisely  the  opposite. 

Some  people  go  so  far  in  their  adoration  of  these 
little  frills  and  flounces  as  to  demand  that  antique 
music  should  not  be  played  at  all  upon  our  modern 
pianoforte;  that  instruments  of  the  style  contem- 
poraneous to  the  compositions  should  be  built  and 
learned.  Perhaps  so.  Let  us  see.  The  feeble  tone 
would  demand  a  smaller  hall;  this  would  not  hold 
enough  people  to  pay  the  printing  expenses — but 
let  us  skip  that.  The  small  hall,  in  its  turn,  would 
not  harmonize  with  the  glare  of  electric  light;  but 
— never  mind — we  will  get  oil  lamps!  Now  think 
of  this  environment,  of  this  milieu^  a  small  hall 
decorated  rococo,  illumined  by  oil  lamps,  on  the 
stage  a  spinet  or  clavichord  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
all — a  man  in  modern  evening  dress!  An  impos- 
sibility, a  shock,  an  esthetic  outrage: — But  there's 
a  way  out — let  the  pianist  don  the  rococo  costume. 
Alas — would  not  this  seem  a  bit  theatrical?  Would 
it  not  lower  the  dignity  of  a  concert  or  recital? 
Assuredly !  Then  there  should  remain  nothing  for  it 
except  that  the  audience,  too,  appear  en  costume 
and — the  farce  were  complete. 
As  to  the  preservation  of  historical  truth  in  Art — 
[  42  ] 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 

I  have  yet  to  see  it.  The  paintings  of  the  old  masters 
as  well  as  of  more  recent  painters  fairly  teem  with 
anachronisms  and  are,  nevertheless,  great  works 
of  Art.  The  historical  drama  is  historically  never 
quite  true.  Neither  is  the  historical  novel.  And, 
what  is  more,  there  are  some  very  enlightened 
people  who  question  seriously  whether  history  itself 
is  always  true.  At  any  rate  this  matter  of  historical 
truth  in  Art,  its  needfulness  or  irrelevancy,  the 
difficulty  in  obtaining,  verifying,  proving  it  in 
matters  of  applied  Art,  is  a  very  long  chapter  and 
one  which  is  somewhat  remote  from  this  discussion. 
We  may  be  satisfied  with  the  slight  touch  of  it  that 
bears  upon  the  author's  authority  regarding  the 
embellishments  in  antique  music.  It  may  not  be 
amiss,  however,  to  mention  here  by  way  of  com- 
parison that  the  literary  world  seems  to  be  far  less 
captious  than  the  musical,  for  there  are  many  old 
works  of  literature  that  have  been  transcribed  into 
more  modern  forms  of  their  original  language 
(Chaucer,  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  the  Edda, 
and  others)  without  laying  the  transcriber  open  to 
the  charge  of  heresy  or  vandalism. 
Possibly  my  advocacy  of  discretionary  powers  for 
the  interpreter  may  sooner  or  later  be  met  with  the 
trite  question:  "Where  will  you  draw  the  line?" 
If  so,  I  should  offer  two  separate  replies.  First, 
"Never  mind  about  the  line.  If  you  are  really  and 
intimately  familiar  with  the  style  of  writing  of  the 
[43] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

master  whose  work  you  are  to  play,  you  may  safely 
rely  on  your  good  sense  to  prevent  you  from  ex- 
tending your  privilege  of  discretion  to  that  degree 
where  it  will  injure  the  composition."  Secondly, 
I  should  take  my  rights  as  an  American  citizen  to 
answer  by  a  counter-question.  I  would  open,  say, 
the  *'Kreisleriana,"  point  at  the  first  number;  at 
the  first  measure  and  at  the  entire  first  part.  There 
we  find  the  general  remark  "Pedal."  Vague  as  this 
is,  let  us  assume  that  Schumann  had  in  mind  a 
change  of  Pedal  with  every  bass  note.  We  find  also 
that  the  bass  is  written,  relatively  speaking,  in 
somewhat  long  notes,  every  second  of  which  Schu- 
mann took  pains  to  tie  over  into  the  next  measure. 
Yet,  we  find  these  selfsame,  long-pedalled  basses 
supplied  with  staccato  dots.  How  can  I  reconcile 
these  confiicting  orders  without  consulting  my  own 
judgment  and  without  the  exercise  of  freedom  with 
discretion? 

That  I  am  not  altogether  impervious  to  such  gentle 
hints  from  a  composer  as  he  addresses  rather  to  the 
imagination  than  to  the  technic,  a  kindly  disposed 
reader  may  infer  from  the  suggestion  made  in  regard 
to  Beethoven's  Sonata  Op.  14.  But  when  by  a  plain 
contradiction  between  the  employed  terms  such 
hints  lead  into  downright  confusion — as  in  the  case 
of  the  Kreisleriana  (selected  from  an  astonishingly 
large  number) — I  am  compelled  to  set  the  author's 
authority  aside  and  rely  upon  my  own  judgment. 
[  44  ] 


THE  AUTHORS  AUTHORITY 

It  will  be  some  consolation  to  the  reader  to  know- 
that  my  plea  is  not  altogether  new  so  far  as  it  con- 
cerns the  limitations  of  the  author's  authority. 
The  reconstruction  of  phrases  which,  on  account  of 
the  small  compass  of  their  keyboard,  had  to  be  crip- 
pled by  earlier  writers,  is  now  generally  accepted. 
If  we  reflect,  however,  that  it  was  not  only  the 
narrow  compass  (of  pitch)  that  limited  the  earlier 
pianos,  but  also  an  exceedingly  small  scale  of 
shade-variety;  if  we  admit  to  ourselves — as,  in 
fairness,  we  must — that  the  progress  (in  tone- 
quality,  mechanism,  keyboard  extension,  durability) 
of  the  modern  piano  has  been  called  forth  by  the 
ever-growing  demands  the  virtuoso  made  upon  the 
piano;  and  that  he  made  these  demands  because  he 
has  continually  added  to  the  store  of  technical 
means  of  expression — we  cannot  evade  the  con- 
clusion that  the  pianist  of  to-day  is  able  to  put  into 
sounding  reality  many  things  in  the  works  of  our 
masterly  forebears — whose  genius  builded  so  much 
better  than  they  knew — which  they  hardly  dared  to 
imagine.  Since  such  realizations,  however,  involve 
the  employment  of  technical  means  that  were  un- 
known to  the  old  masters,  we  must  not  hesitate 
to  resort  to  these  means. 

The  artist  that  has  the  courage  to  do  this  will  run 
no  risk  of  displeasing  an  earnest  and  competent 
critic,  for  the  changes  he  makes  consciously — and 
conscientiously — will  but  emphasize  his  familiarity 
f  45  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

with  the  intentions  of  the  composer,  while  this 
familiarity,  in  its  turn,  begets  a  love  for  the  master 
which  will  prevent  impious  meddling. 
It  is,  however,  not  only  in  such  relatively  small 
matters  as  an  occasional  embellishment,  slur,  dot, 
or  crippled  phrase,  that  the  author's  authority  is 
limited;  with  regard  to  the  general  conception  of  a 
composer's  work  on  the  part  of  the  interpreter 
this  limitation  becomes  still  more  apparent. 
Not  to  confine  the  discussion  exclusively  to  the  piano 
we  may  take  the  broader  scope  of  a  Symphony  for 
the  orchestra,  and  we  shall  find  that  even  here  the 
author's  ideas — as  the  individual  conductor  under- 
stands them — require  the  technical  assistance  of 
the  interpreter.  Let  me  illustrate  by  a  not  al- 
together fictitious  case. 

The  Symphony  Orchestra — the  city  shall  be  name- 
less— ^played  the  Fifth  Symphony  by  Beethoven. 
It  was  the  first  performance  of  this  work  under  a 
new  conductor.  Well — he  "did  things."  He  took 
the  last  movement  broader  than  we  had  heard  it 
before.  He  gave  it  not  so  much  as  an  outbreak  of 
joy,  but  rather  as  a  hymn  of  joy;  brilliant,  im- 
pressive, but  rather  grandiose.  In  the  well-known 
horn  motive  he  doubled  the  horns  and  made  them 
turn  the  funnels  upwards,  so  as  to  bring  out  the  fine, 
folksong-like  motive  more  strongly.  He  phrased 
the  first  movement  more  clearly  than  we  had  heard 
it  before.  In  short,  he  did  a  great  many  things 
f  46  1 


THE  AUTHOR'S  AUTHORITY 

which  pleased  me  thoroughly  and  over  which  my 
conservative  friends  were  highly  incensed.  Letting 
them  speak  first,  I  may  quote :  "It  wasn't  Beet- 
hoven! Beethoven  didn't  want  four  horns!  Beet- 
hoven didn't  mean  the  last  movement  to  be  an 
ode  to  joy,  but  joy  itself!  Beethoven  wrote  the 
metronome  mark  at  84,  not — as  the  conductor 
took  it — at  72!  It  was  an  ^interesting  experiment,* 
but  certain  things  should  be  held  too  sacred  for 
experimenting !  The  phrasing  of  the  first  movement 
broke  up  the  fluency,  the  continuity  of  the  struc- 
ture; it  was  vivisection!" 

With  all  of  which  I  heartily  and  profoundly  dis- 
agreed. But  this  does  not  prevent  me  from  thinking 
that  the  conservative  element  is  both  wholesome 
and  necessary  in  a  musical  community  to  counter- 
balance the  Liberals  who  are  easily  inclined  to  abuse 
the  legitimate  liberty  of  the  interpreter  so  much  as 
to  become  impious  meddlers  with  things  which, 
after  all,  ought  to  be  held  sacred.  My  retort  to  the 
aforesaid  criticism  would  be  by  no  means  that  it  is 
altogether  wrong.  I  should  only  charge  it  with  a 
high  degree  of  exaggeration,  and  nothing  more, 
because  from  a  conservative  point  of  view  the 
conductor  did  violate  Beethoven. 
The  Liberal,  however,  asks  himself.  What  is  "Beet- 
hoven.'^" What  do  we,  what  can  we,  know  about 
him  and  his  spirit,  beyond  the  thoughts  he  confided 
to  the  many-staffed  paper?  And  as  we  trace  these 
[  47  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

powerful  thoughts  and  see  plainly  how  much  his 
expression  was  restricted  by  the  lack  of  chromatic 
instruments,  by  the  paucity  of  orchestral  force, 
technic  and  skill — shall  we  persist  in  an  exact  re- 
production of  his  means  and  relegate  the  modern 
orchestra  to  a  sort  of  phonograph?  Should  we  not 
preferably  read  between  the  lines  and  put  into 
sounding  reality  what  we  think  he  meant  to  say? 
Should  we  not,  in  extolling  the  grandeur  of  his 
thoughts,  employ  all  the  richness  of  the  modern 
orchestra  rather  than  prevent  the  present  genera- 
tion from  hearing  one  iota  more  in  Beethoven  than 
did  our  forefathers?  Do  we  not  employ  the  skill 
of  modern  oratory  in  interpreting  the  Good  Book 
from  the  pulpit?  Does  not  the  modern  painter 
portray  the  Saviour  according  to  his  modern  con- 
ception? Have  we  not  abandoned  the  stilted, 
scanning  style  of  declamation  prevalent  in  dra- 
matic performances  contemporaneous  with  Shake- 
speare? Do  all  actors  play  Hamlet  alike?  And  why 
do  they  not?  On  the  other  hand,  why  should  they? 
We  know  the  "story"  of  Hamlet,  what  little  there 
is  of  it,  and  we  are  not  at  all  curious  to  know  whether 
Mr.  A,  B  or  C  can  or  cannot  remember  the  lines 
and  go  through  the  traditional  motions.  What  we 
do  want  to  see  and  hear  is  whether  Mr.  A,  B  or  C 
saw  more  in  Hamlet  than  we  have  seen;  and  how 
Hamlet  was  mirrored  in  his  brain.  So  it  is  with  the 
C  minor  Symphony,  to  return  to  our  medium  of 
[  48  1 


THE  AUTHORS  AUTHORITY 

illustration.  We  know  what  Theodore  Thomas' 
autocratic  mind  saw  in  it.  We  know  how  much  more 
Leopold  Damrosch,  his  great  contemporary,  saw 
in  it,  even  though  he  was  much  less  of  an  orchestral 
disciplinarian.  We  have  heard  it  played  under  the 
batons  of  more  recent  conductors.  Each  one 
differed  from  the  other,  and  if  the  difference  was 
not  caused  by  plebeian  tricks  but  by  the  honest 
conception  of  a  well-trained  mind,  did  not  the 
difference  lend  additional  interest  to  the  per- 
formances? 

I  well  understand  the  sweet  pleasure  which  a  tra- 
ditional performance  gives  us.  To  hear  what  we 
know  so  well;  to  hear  it  as  we  were  wont  to  hear  it, 
gratifies  our  memory;  it  reawakens  in  our  soul  half- 
forgotten  feelings;  it  brings  back  old  times;  the 
power  of  association  asserts  itself  in  and  through 
the  music;  our  thoughts  wander  back  to  the  time 
"when  we  were  twenty-one,"  and  thus,  step  by  step, 
the  enjoyment  of  the  symphony  recedes  from  its 
purely  musical  plane  until,  finally,  the  sounds 
assume  a  role  which  the  glowing  embers  of  a  cozy 
wood  fire  could  play  just  as  well.  Surely,  the  appeal 
of  such  a  traditional  performance  to  the  musical 
mind  is  not  nearly  so  stimulating  as  when  we  hear 
the  old  works  embodying  a  new  meaning — a  mean- 
ing that  is  applicable  to  the  life  of  our  own,  present 
time. 

Moreover,  what  do  our  conservative  friends  mean 
f  49  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

by  a  traditional  performance?  Surely  no  more  than 
what  they  heard  when  they  were  young.  But  if 
they  think  that  these  performances  were  anything 
like  those  of  Beethoven's  days,  they  are  grossly 
in  error.  I  knew  a  dear,  lovable  old  man  who  for 
many  years  conducted  one  of  Germany's  best 
orchestras.  When  I  was  a  boy  he  was  a  blond- 
haired  man  in  his  prime,  and  I  well  remember  how 
he  overthrew  one  tradition  after  another  that  his 
predecessors  had  established;  I  remember  how 
tactfully  and  gently  he  expressed  himself  about 
the  **old  fogies."  And  now?  He  has  retired,  and 
new  men  play  the  old  symphonies.  How  he  now 
deplores  *'the  waning'  of  all  understanding  for 
Beethoven" — and  uses  almost  the  same  words 
with  regard  to  his  successors  which  his  predecessors 
applied  to  him.  'Twas  ever  thus.  The  old  is  right, 
the  new  is  wrong,  because  it  will,  as  Shakespeare 
has  it,  "commit  the  oldest  sins  the  newest  kinds  of 
ways." 

After  all,  a  child  of  the  brain  differs  little  from  any 
other  child.  So  long  as  it  stays  at  home,  in  the  com- 
poser's desk,  its  powers  are  put  to  no  test.  That 
process  starts  when  it  leaves  home  and  goes  forth 
into  the  world,  engraved  and  printed.  Then  it  has, 
so  to  speak,  to  earn  its  living.  Some  of  these  brain- 
children succeed  brilliantly,  but  only  for  a  while; 
others  have  a  hard  struggle  at  first,  but  finally 
become  what  we  short-lived  humans  mean  by 
f  50  1 


THE  AUTHORS  AUTHORITY 

"immortal."  Why  do  some  die  while  the  others 
live  on?  Is  it  a  mere  toss  of  a  penny?  Mere  chance? 
Surely  not!  Those  which  die,  had  to  die  because 
they  spoke  only  to  their  generation  and  time. 
The  others  are  of  sturdier  fiber.  The  times  pass 
before  them  with  their  ever-changing  Zeitgeist,  and 
yet  they  stand.  Their  worth  was  recognized  by  the 
light  of  candles  and  oil  lamps;  gas  light  revealed 
but  new  charms  in  them,  and  still  more  beauties 
are  disclosed  by  electric  light.  An  old  work  that 
cannot  stand  the  interpretation  in  the  spirit  of  a  new 
time  is  ripe  for  the  archeological  museum.  Only  when 
its  truths  remain  true  in  the  light  of,  and  applica- 
tion to,  our  time — only  then  can  an  old  work  claim 
our  attention  (outside  of  the  class-room),  for  only 
then  it  has  vitality.  If  it  resists  the  new  conception 
— it  is  dead  I  And  that  is  why  some  works  of  un- 
doubted but  transient  merit  die. 
To  return,  in  parting,  to  the  piano,  I  would  ask  any 
pianist  to  try  the  experiment  of  playing  a  compo- 
sition by  Gade,  Hummel,  Moscheles,  Sterndale 
Bennett,  in  a  modern  spirit.  Does  not  the  very  idea 
make  you  smile?  But  why?  These  composers  were 
masterly  writers  in  their  day.  Yet  you  smile — 
because  you  feel  distinctly  that  their  works  have 
nothing  more  to  tell  us  and  that  for  this  reason  they 
do  not  admit  of  any  but  the  traditional  interpre- 
tation. The  infusion  of  a  new  spirit,  of  a  new  or 
heightened  meaning,  would  make  them  sound  in- 
[51  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

congruous,  absurd.  There  we  may  accept  the 
author's  authority;  but  when  we  deal  with  the  great 
prophets,  with  those  inspired  minds  in  whose  works 
the  tread  of  centuries  leaves  no  trace  of  wear,  we 
must  claim  the  privilege  of  the  living  to  administer 
their  priceless  heirloom  as  we  are  prompted  by  our 
love,  admiration  and  conscience. 

The  author's  authority — forsooth! 


52  ] 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


In  contemplating  a  special  branch  of  art  there  occurs 
not  infrequently  the  error  of  regarding  it  entirely 
'per  sBy  as  an  art,  and  not  as  one  of  the  forms  or 
branches  of  art.  Literary  persons  sometimes  claim 
that  the  esthetic  principles  which  govern  painting, 
for  instance,  must  not  be  applied  to  belles  letires, 
and  vice  versa.  This  is  an  error;  for  art  is  one,  and 
its  various  forms  differ  only  in  the  mode  of  mani- 
festation. Hence  it  scarcely  requires  special  mention 
that  any  general  or  fundamental  principle  which  is 
true  in  one  branch  of  art  must  be  true  in  all  its 
branches. 

Looking  at  the  question  from  this  broader  stand- 
point, it  may  be  well  to  inquire  into  the  position 
which  the  element  of  description  holds  in  art. 
This  is  necessary  because  there  seems  to  be  a  veiled 
suggestion  in  the  much  discussed  question  which 
implies  the  comparison,  **Does  music  describe  as 
well  as  other  arts?" 

What  part,  therefore,  does  exactness  of  description 
really  play  in  the  merits  of  an  art-work.^ 
Let  us  look  at  a  good  oil  portrait,  painted  by  a 
master,  and  representing  somebody  we  know.  It 
is  a  strong  likeness,  no  doubt,  and  yet  we  scarcely 
ever  saw  the  person  look  exactly  like  the  picture. 
Why?  Because  the  artist  did  not  paint  his  man  as 
[  55  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

he  looked  at  any  particular  moment  (any  photo- 
grapher could  do  that),  but  studied  the  various 
traits  of  his  character  as  expressed  in  the  face, 
hands,  etc.,  and  then  made  a  sort  of  composite 
picture  of  an  entire  life-period,  giving  due  promi- 
nence to  the  predominating  moods,  and  indicating 
others  more  delicately.  The  artist — who  may  modify 
some  harsh  line,  omit  a  discoloration,  idealize,  and 
all  that,  and  still  retain  a  likeness — rises  above  mere 
material  resemblance,  and  suggests  to  our  minds 
things  which,  however  seemingly  inseparable  from 
matter,  are  nevertheless  incorporeal,  non-material. 
Let  us  look  at  the  great  descriptions  of  travel. 
What  do  we  find? — the  exact  height  of  a  mountain? 
the  lowest  depth  of  a  river?  the  precise  architec- 
tural arrangement  of  a  village  or  city?  Why,  if 
these  material  minutiae  constituted  literary  merit, 
Baedeker's  guide-books  would  be  the  greatest 
achievements  of  descriptive  literature !  If  in  a  book 
on  hand  we  find  these  things  at  all,  they  are  merely 
incidental;  what  imparts  the  real  value  to  travel 
descriptions  of  literary  merit,  is  the  author's  mental 
and  emotional  activity  called  forth  by  the  mountains 
and  rivers,  their  relation  to  humanity,  their  mood, 
their  character — the  non-material,  incorporeal  part; 
and  only  by  the  aid  of  these  non-material  things 
can  the  author  produce  tKe  illusion  in  his  readers 
that  they  have  actually  been  in  the  described  place, 
that  they  have  seen  it  themselves.  Yes,  only  through 
[56] 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


things  incorporeal,  intangible — ^but  how  may  the 
intangible  be  described?  It  may,  in  truth,  not  be 
described;  but  by  illustration,  metaphor,  symbol 
and  whatever  means  make  up  the  craft  of  literary 
art,  it  may  be  suggested  to  a  mind  that  is  receptive 
and  conversant  with  its  terminology. 
f  This  is  precisely  the  point  upon  which  our  question 
hinges.  Some  say,  "music  does  describe."  Some 
say,  **it  does  not."  Both  are  wrong,  and  would 
probably  be  willing  to  compromise  on  the  amend- 
ment that  music,  like  all  art,  suggests.  ^^ 
Surely  every  composer  writes  with  the  conscious 
or  unconscious  intention  of  conveying  emotion,  and 
emotion  is  based  upon  imagination.  Now,  imagina- 
tion need  not  fully  emancipate  itself  from  things 
material;  it  is  like  the  prism,  through  which  a  beam 
of  white  sunlight  passes,  and  through  which,  by 
refraction,  it  is  transformed  into  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow.  Imagination  dips  into  the  flowers  of  reality 
to  extract  their  incorporeal  fragrance;  it  occupies 
itself  with  things  material  to  extract  from  them 
their  non-material  attributes — and  thus  it  feeds 
our  emotion. 

This  brings  the  answer  to  the  question,  "Does  music 
describe?"  It  does,  for  it  suggests;  and  suggestion 
is  a  tj^yj^gr  of  unlimited  power,  which  may  lack  the 
definiteness  of  actual  description,  but  may  act  with 
far  greater  force.  As  to  the  title  of  a  music-piece 
it  is  a  matter  of  taste  and  inclination  of  the  com- 
f  57  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

poser  whether,  by  entitling  his  composition,  he  will 
give  our  imagination  a  definite  direction,  or  whether 
he  shall  prefer  to  let  us  choose  our  own  objects 
from  which  to  extract  our  emotional  feast.* 
It  might  also  be  said  that  any  art  which  describes 
must  be  able  to  make  its  description  so  clear  as  to 
be  understood  without  explanation;  that  appears 
reasonable,  and  yet,  take  up  any  illustrated  book, 
try  to  infer  from  the  illustrations,  even  in  the  most 
general  way,  what  they  mean,  and  see  what  a  dismal 
failure  you  will  make!  I  remember  having  in  my 
early  boyhood  seen  a  picture  by  Dor6,  illustrating 
the  Brocken  Scene  in  Goethe's  "Faust.**  It  was 
before  I  had  read  that  work,  and  to  me  this  picture 
conveyed  absolutely  nothing;  for  I  saw  only  a  lot 
of  nude  female  figures  flying  in  mid  air  without 
wings,  in  their  midst  a  goat  also  flying  without 
wings.  In  short,  the  whole  picture  was  absolutely 
nonsensical  and  incongruous  to  me,  and  it  was  not 
until  five  years  later,  after  I  had  read  Goethe's 
"Faust,**  that  it  dawned  upon  me  that  the  picture 
referred  to  the  Brocken  Scene.  A  very  similar  ex- 
perience was  with  the  celebrated  picture  (I  forget 


•  It  is  well  known  that  there  exist  two  different  views  among  musicians  on 
this  subject,  so  different  that  the  adherents  to  these  views  may  almost  be  classified 
as  two  parties.  There  are  those  who  believe  in  absolute  music,  and  those  who 
believe  in  program  music,  or  descriptive  music;  yet  when  we  look  a  little  closer 
at  the  two  parties,  from  Gluck,  Rameau  and  Bach  to  Wagner  and  Brahms,  we  find 
that  the  division  has  no  existence  in  reality,  for  every  one  of  these  masters  has 
written  music  of  both  classes;  some  could  be  termed  "absolute"  music,  and  also 
some  "program"  music;  so,  by  appealing  to  their  authorities,  we  should  not 
gain  much. 

f  58  1 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


who  painted  it)  of  Queen  Mary  Stuart*s  last 
moments.  I  saw  a  lady  weeping,  surrounded  by  a 
great  many  other  weeping  women,  and  a  somewhat 
elderly  gentleman  kneeling  before  her;  and,  while 
the  coloring  of  the  picture  may  have  pleased  my 
eyes,  I  failed  utterly  to  understand  what  it  was, 
because  I  was  too  young  to  know  anything  about 
the  hapless  Queen  of  Scots.  Now  both  these  pictures 
contained  human  figures,  which  could  be  perfectly 
understood,  and  yet  these  pictures  were  a  perfect 
blank  to  me.  This  seems  to  prove  that  we  have  to 
know  what  the  artist  meant  to  convey,  in  order 
to  understand  his  work;  we  have  to  judge  the  work 
from  the  artist's  standpoint,  and,  if  an  art-work 
tells  the  story  which  its  title  indicates,  its  merits 
depend  entirely  upon  how  well  it  tells  it. 
Choose  as  ja,  musical  example  Raff's  "Forest  Sym- 
phony." After  we  know  the  title,  will  it  lead  our 
imagination  into  the  forest,  into  forest  lore?  Will 
it  suggest  to  us  the  legend  of  the  Wild  Huntsman 
and  his  spectral  retinue,  the  forest  elves,  and  all 
the  many  characters  connected  with  forest  lore, 
by  no  other  means  than  its  title  and  music .f*  or  will 
it  fail  to  do  it?  Now,  if  anybody  can  hear  the 
"Forest  Symphony,"  and  be  acquainted  with  its 
title,  and  say,  after  hearing  it,  that  nothing  of  a 
romantically  sylvan  nature  has  been  suggested  to  his 
imagination  and  to  his  mind,  then  I  will  admit 
that  music  does  not  describe.  And  if  anyone  hearing 
[  59  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

the  overture  to  the  "Flying  Dutchman,"  and, 
knowing  the  title,  can  fail  to  experience  in  his 
imagination  the  sensations  of  the  maritime  and  the 
spectral,  then  music  does  not  describe,  and  the 
"program  musicians"  are  a  set  of  chimera-hunters; 
but  if  the  purposed  suggestions  come  to  our  mind 
through  these  music-pieces,  or  if  the  suggestions 
conveyed  by  the  title  are  by  the  subsequent  music 
intensified  to  such  a  degree  as  to  assume  definite 
forms,  and  cause  us  to  lose  ourselves,  to  live  with 
them,  to  feel  with  them,  then  music  does  describe. 
And  if  it  does,  the  description  occupies  itself,  not 
with  any  particular  moment,  as  a  genre-picture 
would,  but  with  the  emotional  course  of  events, 
and  with  the  motion  of  the  subject,  showing  it  in 
all  its  moods,  while  the  graphic  arts  show  only  one. 
This  advantage  of  music  over  the  graphic  arts  is 
counterbalanced  by  a  lack  of  definiteness  of  outline; 
but  for  the  purely  emotional  phase  with  which  music 
occupies  itself  the  definiteness  of  outline  is  of  no 
consequence.  The  absence  of  definite  outline,  how- 
ever, has  led  to  the  argument  that  a  music-piece 
may  describe  something  different  to  every  hearer; 
but  I  meet  that  argument  by  what  I  said  of  the 
necessity  of  knowing  the  title;  besides,  the  same 
argument  can  be  brought  to  bear  upon  any  book, 
any  statue,  any  picture.  What  commentaries,  and 
how  many  different  ones,  have  not  been  written  on 
Goethe*s  "Faust,"  on  "Hamlet,"  on  the  "Venus 
f  60  1 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


of  Milo"  and  the  "Angelas"  by  Millet — hundreds, 
if  not  thousands,  of  them !  Does  that  not  show  that 
a  book,  a  statue,  a  picture,  may  also  mean  some- 
thing different  to  every  beholder?  But  what  of  it? 
The  circumstance  that  an  artistic  illustration  may 
fit  more  than  one  subject  does  not  seem  to  me  to 
be  of  any  consequence.  It  seems  simply  to  show 
the  capability  of  the  art-work  for  stirring  the 
imagination  even  beyond  its  purposed  point. 
Besides,  we  must  not  forget  that  music  has  at  its 
disposal  quite  a  number  of  expressions  which,  by 
traditional  use  (hardly  attributable  to  mere  chance), 
have  become  definite  types,  types  of  such  force  of 
characterization  that  the  world  has  accepted  them 
as  such.  I  could  show  a  goodly  list  of  such  types 
which  even  children  understand  instinctively,  but 
this  particular  matter  is  too  large  to  find  a  place  here. 
There  is,  however,  a  certain  aspect  of  "descriptive- 
ness"  which  is  only  too  often  disregarded  by  cre- 
ative artists:  it  is  the  very  definition  of  "art."  Those 
who  consider  art  to  be  merely  a  sort  of  refined 
"amusement"  will  probably  protest  against  the 
definition  as  specifying  the  essence  of  art,  but  they 
should  remember  that  the  returns  which  art  makes 
to  the  absorber  are  always  exactly  balanced  with 
what  he  brings  towards  it  in  the  way  of  appre- 
ciation, though  this  may  be  entirely  instinctive, 
as  it  is  in  many  cases. 

Art,  then,  in  its  ultimate  meaning,  iaan^exvression 
f  61  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

of  purely  psychic  processes,  a  reflex  of  soul-im- 
pressions. To  put  a  landscape  or  a  liuinall  llgure 
upon^the  canvas  as  a  mere  imitation  of  the  original 
does  not  require  the  heart-guided  hand  of  an  artist; 
a  mere  craftsman  can  do  it,  not  to  mention  chemico- 
mechanical  processes;  but  the  result  thus  obtained 
must  ever  remain  a  mere  "imitation,"  it  can  never 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  an  "interpretation."  Now, 
the  more  an  artist  persists  in  such  minutiae  as  do 
not  bear  diriectly  upon  the  feeling  which  the  subject 
has  aroused  in  him,  the  less  of  an  "interpreter" — 
i.e.,  of  an  artist — he  is.  For  in  order  to  produce  a 
work  of  art  he  must,  disregarding  all  that  is  psychi- 
cally inessential,  concentrate  his  efforts  upon  the 
spiritual  quality  of  his  subject.  This  is  particularly 
true  of  musical  composition.  It  can  express  the 
heroic,  but  it  can  describe  neither  Hannibal  nor 
Caesar  in  particular;  it  can  express  the  idyllic,  but 
it  can  describe  neither  Daphnis  nor  Aucassin. 
Hence,  whenever  a  composer  ventures  into  the 
portraying  of  particular  persons  or  events  his  work 
is  bound  to  suffer  as  a  work  of  art  because  it  tres- 
passes upon  a  domain  of  description  that  belongs 
to  a  different  branch  of  art. 

It  is  quite  true  that  our  feelings  are  so  closely  inter- 
woven with  our  life-experiences  that,  when  listening 
to  music,  we  can  scarcely  refrain  from  connecting 
the  feelings  it  roused  in  us  with  some  particular 
event,  character  or  experience  which  the  magic 
f  62  1 


DOES  MUSIC  DESCRIBE? 


\' 


of  music  has  brought  to  our  mind; — true,  but  this 
associating  process  must  ever  remain  the  privilege 
of  the  auditqr.  r^ot  of  the  composer;  for,  if  he  ignores  (\^  J  ^ 
this  privilege  and  usurps  it  for  himself,  he  cannot 
avoid  violating  the  esthetic  form  and  the  very 
coherence  of  his  work. 

The  test  of  a  piece  of  descriptive  music  will — and 
must — be,  that  vnihout  the  descriptive  program  it 
still  remains  a  piece  of  good,  intelligible  music;  just 
as  a  portrait,  though  a  "speaking  likeness,**  must  be 
a  good,  artistic  painting,  and  as  a  book  on  travel 
description  must  be  orderly  in  the  sequence  of 
thought  and  show  good  diction  to  be  respected  as 
good  literature.  It  is  in  this  premise  where  many 
composers,  as  well  as  the  artists  in  other  branches, 
sin  only  too  often  and  cause  many  a  sincere  auditor 
— or  spectator — to  doubt  his  own  intelligence 
instead  of  blaming  the  misguided  composer  for  his 
failure  to  understand  the  ethics  of  his  art. 
To  sum  up:  Music  as  well  as  any  other  art  does 
describe,  because  it  suggests,  only  that  it  has  its 
own  province  of  descriptive  suggestion.  And  to 
demand  of  music  a  definite  outline  of  "Things**  is 
as  unfair  as  to  demand  the  poetry  of  color  from 
sculpture,  or  an  eye-feast  from  literature.  Each 
art  has  its  domain  of  description,  or  suggestion, 
or  of  emotional  utterance  (whichever  of  these 
designations  you  may  prefer).  If  one  and  the  same 
subject  were  given  to  a  painter,  a  sculptor,  a  writer 
f  63  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

and  a  composer,  each  one  would  portray  that  phase 
of  it  for  which  his  particular  form  of  art  is  best 
qualified;  and  the  musician  infringes  upon  no  ex- 
clusive right  of  literature  if  he  employs  onoma- 
topoeia with  good  taste  and  dignity  in  his  descrip- 
tion. But — and  this  is  a  big  "but" — as  to  such  a 
description  as  would  instruct  or  inform  the  Boeotian 
(if  such  an  intimation  were  lurking  behind  our  harm- 
less-looking question),  there  is  no  such  thing  in  art, 
neither  in  literature  nor  in  painting  and,  of  course, 
not  in  music  either. 

To  be  understood,  the  language  of  music  must  be 
learned,  and  this  applies,  of  course,  to  any  language. 
If  we  confine  our  desires  to  no  more  than  an  under- 
standing of  its  messages,  how  fortunate  that  the 
"learning"  of  music's  language  draws  neither  upon 
our  conscious  reasoning,  our  clerical  work,  nor  upon 
any  other  personal  exertion.  The  merest  listening 
to  it,  frequently  and  attentively  repeated,  is  suffi- 
cient to  familiarize  us  with  the  vocabulary  of  its 
idealized  speech;  sufficient,  at  least,  to  extract  from 
it  our  personal  measure  of  spiritual  gratification. 


64 


NATIONAL  MUSIC  AND  THE  NEGRO 


NA  TIONAL  MUSIC  AND 
THE  NEGRO 

In  our  symphony  concerts  and  grand  operas,  even 
in  the  entr*acte  music  of  our  better  theatres,  in  all 
music  of  a  public  character,  we  have  reached  a  level 
on  which  we  need  no  longer  fear  comparison  with 
Europe — not,  at  least,  as  far  as  it  relates  to  the 
largest  cities  of  our  country.  It  is  true  that  we  still 
import  most  of  our  players  and  singers  from  Europe, 
but  that  is  a  matter  for  separate  discussion;  its 
relation  to  the  present  subject  is  too  remote  and 
would,  needlessly,  lead  us  far  afield.  Although  the 
number  of  musical  centers  is  larger  on  the  European 
continent  and  therefore  the  distribution  of  musical 
appreciation  more  even  than  it  is  here,  we  may  take 
the  constantly  growing  number  of  large  legitimate 
orchestras,  and  the  increasing  interest  of  the  public 
in  such  organizations,  as  an  unmistakable  indi- 
cation that  Music  in  America  will  in  this  respect,  too. 
soon  be  the  equal  of  Music  in  Europe. 
There  is,  however,  a  difference  between  "Music  in 
America**  and  "American  Music."  This  difference 
does  not  seem  to  be  quite  understood  by  those  who 
have  at  heart  the  creative  side  of  Music  in  America. 
Let  it  be  well  understood  that  the  music  of  this 
country — and  this  statement  is  meant  to  comprise 
all  types  of  music — is  quite  as  good  as  any  which 
Europe  has  had  to  show  since  death  arrested  the  pen 
[  67  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

of  Brahms  and  Tchaikovsky.  This  may  mean  much 
or  little,  according  to  the  point  of  view  of  the  ob- 
server, but  it  is  certain  that,  with  regard  to  in- 
ventiveness and  skill,  the  American  composer  of 
high-class  music  leaves  little  or  nothing  to  be 
desired. 

In  the  face  of  these  facts  it  must  seem  strange  that 
up  to  the  present  day  no  work  of  high  artistic  value, 
written  on  our  side  of  the  ocean,  has  become  popular 
among  ourselves.  It  will  not  do  to  account  for  this 
fact  by  the  toplofty  explanation  that  high-class 
music  is  never  popular.  For  in  the  meaning  of  the 
word  as  used  here,  many  great  works  are  thoroughly 
popular;  e.g.,  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony,  Mo- 
zart's "Don  Giovanni,'*  Wagner's  music-dramas, 
Tchaikovsky's  *Tath6tique,"  and  many  other  large 
works,  as  well  as  an  infinite  number  of  smaller  vocal 
and  instrumental  solo  pieces  of  high  merit.  Appre- 
ciation, therefore,  is  by  no  means  wanting,  and  as 
the  inventiveness  and  skill  of  our  composers  are 
likewise  evident,  the  public's  persistent  refusal  to 
award  the  crown  of  popularity  to  a  domestic  com- 
position seems  to  suggest  that  some  important 
element  must  be  missing  in  it.  This  element  can  be 
no  other  than  the  ethnic  or  national  note,  the  local 
touch;  that  touch  which,  for  instance,  after  a  pro- 
tracted siege  of  Italian  Opera  awakened  the  German 
people  to  their  musical  self-respect  at  the  first  hear- 
ing  of   Weber's   "Freischiitz";   that   note   which, 


NATIONAL   MUSIC  AND    THE  NEGRO 

reaching  past  and  beyond  the  lover  or  connoisseur 
of  music  in  us,  should  address  us  as  Americans;  that 
would  reecho  our  typical  mode  of  thinking;  our 
ethics,  our  spirit  of  freedom,  the  magnitude  of  our 
enterprises,  the  breadth  of  our  humaneness,  the 
uniquely  dignified  position  of  our  women,  the 
mixture  of  races  composing  so  large  a  part  of  our 
population — not  to  speak  of  the  tender  note  of  love, 
which,  though  common  to  all  humanity,  has  yet 
a  slightly  different  sound  in  every  country.  The 
number  of  elements  distinguishing  our  national  life 
from  that  of  other  peoples  is  very  large,  and  the 
briefest  glance  into  the  variety  and  details  of  indi- 
vidual careers  here  makes  this  number  appear 
practically  endless. 

Why,  then,  has  the  ethnographic  note  of  America 
not  been  sounded?  It  is  because  that  element  in  our 
complex  population  which  possesses  this  note  most 
distinctly,  belongs  to  a  different  race.  On  this 
account  has  the  ethnical  significance  of  that  element 
•been  overlooked.  It  is,  in  other  words,  because  the 
negro  is  black!  Our  musical  custodians  have, 
however,  completely  overlooked  the  circumstance 
that  the^  negro,  though  of  a  different  race,  is,  never- 
theless, a  social  ingredient  here  quite  as  numerous 
and  as  close  to  us  as  is  the  Hebrew;  the  negro  is  a 
constituent  not  only  numerically  important,  but 
also  historically  and  as  regards  his  problematic  po- 
litical position.  Not  only  has  the  negro  been  the 
[  69  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

cause  of  the  greatest  war  in  our  history*  and  of  the 
most  serious  and  most  painful  division  of  sentiment 
this  nation  has  ever  experienced;  not  only  is  he  a 
highly  characteristic  and  striking  line  in  the  picture 
of  American  life,  but — and  this  is  the  essential  point 
of  his  importance  for  music — he  also,  more  than  any 
other  type,  represents  among  us  the  element  of 
human  lowliness,  of  humility,  of  suffering.  That 
these  elements  are,  at  the  same  time,  the  art- 
generating  forces  in  national  bodies,  is  a  verity  no 
longer  open  to  dispute;  and  since  the  negro  among 
us  is  the  exponent  par  excellence  of  these  elements, 
the  logical  sequence  is  obvious. 
It  may  be  necessary,  however,  to  meet  at  this  point 
a  possible  iteration  of  the  academic  slogan:  "Art 
has  no  country!"  While  the  young  art-student 
learns  the  rudiments  of  his  art  he  cannot  discern 
the  ethnic  traits  in  the  masterworks  he  studies, 
nor  should  he  be  permitted  to  consider  these  traits 
while  devoting  his  time  to  the  absorption  of  general 
principles  common  to  the  arts  of  all  occidental 
nations.  After  having  mastered  the  craft  under- 
lying his  art,  however,  he  should  be  led  to  realize 
that  there  exists  no  art-work  of  any  renown  which  is 
not  pronouncedly  ethnic.  Of  course,  high  art  does 
not  stop  at  the  ethnic  point  any  more  than  at  the 
point  of  mere  sensuous  beauty,  but  it  should — and 


•Written  before  1917. 

I   70 


NATIONAL   MUSIC  AND    THE   NEGRO 

always  does — touch  this  point.  Michel  Angelo*s 
"Last  Judgment,"  for  instance,  does  not  refer  to 
any  particular  geographical  spot;  yet  it  speaks 
plainest  to  the  Italian.  It  is  thoroughly  Italian,  not 
only  as  to  School,  technic  and  dramatic  style  of 
composition,  but  also — and  especially — in  senti- 
ment. Common  to  all  lands  as  is  the  association  of 
maternal  love  with  sanctity,  Raphael's  Madonna 
of  **San  Sisto"  does  not  attune  the  heart  of  any  one 
to  filial  tenderness  (allied  to  and  alloyed  with  re- 
ligious sentiment)  in  quite  the  same  degree  as  that 
of  an  Italian,  because  in  addition  to  all  that  is 
expressed  in  those  pure  and  lovely  features  the 
Italian  recognizes  in  this  Madonna  also  his  com- 
patriot. She  is  an  Italian  despite  history  and  Bible. 
Murillo's  Madonna  is  a  Spanish  woman.  Holbein, 
though  strongly  influenced  by  Flemish  and  Italian 
art,  painted  his  Madonna  as  a  German  woman. 
The  scenes  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Shylock,  Romeo, 
Caesar,  and  many  others  of  Shakespeare's  dramas 
are  not  laid  in  England,  but  Shakespeare  is,  never- 
theless, the  most  English  of  English  poets.  The 
aggregate  of  foreign  hearts  his  Muse  has  stirred 
may  far  outnumber  the  British  ones;  still,  he  will 
ever  say  more  to  the  intelligent  Englishman  than 
to  the  son  of  any  other  soil;  ay,  even  more,  I  believe, 
than  to  an  American,  though  he  speaks  the  same 
language. 

It  is  the  same  with  Bach,  Beethoven,  Schumann, 
[71  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Chopin,  Boieldieu,  Verdi — in  short,  with  all  the 
great  masters  of  music.  As  we  notice  the  mixture 
of  French  and  Polish  sentiment  (predominantly  the 
latter)  in  Chopin,  as  we  observe  in  Verdi  the  pre- 
ponderance of  sensuous  charm  of  melody,  peculiar 
to  Italy,  so  we  cannot  fail  to  recognize  the  German 
in  Beethoven.  It  is  quite  true  that  he  spoke  a  uni- 
versal language  and  that  this  language  is  fairly  well 
understood  in  all  lands  where  occidental  music  is 
cultivated.  But  deeper  down,  behind  and  beyond 
the  profound  thought  and  its  masterly  expression, 
there  pulsates  in  Beethoven's  music  a  life  with  which 
the  German  feels  the  touch  and  affinity  of  kinship; 
he  feels  the  blood  of  his  blood;  he  sympathizes  with 
its  minutest  agitation  by  sentiment,  for  it  is  like 
unto  his  own.  And  of  all  Germans  again,  the  Viennese 
feels  this  intimate  touch  most  deeply,  for  there  is 
hardly  an  Allegro  in  Beethoven's  works  that  does 
not  more  or  less  distinctly  reecho  the  patriarchal 
times,  the  gay  spirit,  the  unique  street-song  of  Old 
Vienna.  Does  not  also  that  other  art-miracle,  the 
Song  of  Schubert,  plainly  reveal  the  place  of  its 
cradle? 

Tchaikovsky  has  expressed  his  modern  thoughts  in 
thoroughly  classic  forms.  Here  we  find  Russian 
thoughts  in  German  forms  (for  the  form  of  the 
Symphony  is  German),  and  yet  none  acquainted 
with  the  psychic  traits  of  Russia  can  fail  to  recognize 
his  work  as  Russian. 

[  72  ] 


NATIONAL   MUSIC   AND    THE   NEGRO 

Gade  and  Grieg  were  Scandinavians  and  were,  after 
all,  only  twenty-seven  years  apart  in  age.  Of  the 
two,  Gade  was  by  far  the  greater  master  of  form, 
if  not  also  of  counterpoint.  Where  is  his  music  to- 
day, and  why  has  it  vanished?  Because  it  was 
music  from  nowhere  in  particular.  Grieg,  on  the 
other  hand,  wrote  Scandinavian  Music.  The  spirit 
of  the  Norse  Saga,  of  Peter  Dass,  Holberg,  and  so 
on  up  to  Ibsen,  Bjornsen  and  Strindberg,  speaks 
out  of  it.  Norse  landscape  is  reflected  in  it.  His 
music  is  not  only  fine,  clever,  noble — ^for  such  was 
Gade's  music,  too — but  it  is  also  rooted  in  the  soil 
of  a  definite  locality;  it  is  genuinely  ethnic  ! 
Paradox  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that 
in  the  violent  storm  of  opposition  which  Wagner 
had  to  face  and  conquer  he  found  his  most  helpful — 
though,  of  course,  unconscious — ally  in  Meyerbeer. 
Had  the  latter's  art  struck  but  one  note  suggesting 
where  its  home  was,  Wagner  would  perhaps  not  have 
found  recognition  while  he  lived.  But  despite  its 
great  theatrical  cleverness,  brilliant  orchestration 
and  much  that  was  novel  in  it,  Meyerbeer's  music 
was  a  hybrid,  a  mongrel  of  French  piquancy, 
German  solidity  (or  rather  an  affectation  of  it)  and 
Hebrew  sentimentalism.  It  had  no  home.  It  spoke 
no  language  with  its  primordial  accent.  It  reflected 
no  life-theory,  no  history,  no  landscape.  Wagner's 
art,  on  the  other  hand,  voiced  all  these.  And  this 
it  was  that  gave  it  the  stanp  of  genuineness.  For 
f  73  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

when  an  art-work  is  true  somewhere^  it  carries  its 
stamp  of  genuineness  all  over  the  world,  though  its 
ethnic  element  might  not  even  be  understood  out- 
side of  its  own  country. 

Now,  after  the  great  masters  in  all  branches  of  art 
have  in  their  works  revealed  the  ethnic  note  and 
thereby  proved  it  to  be  essential,  it  may  be  so 
accepted;  there  remains  then  only  to  point  out  on 
which  key  of  the  social  keyboard  it  is  to  be  looked  for. 
We  know  that  the  folk-song  of  a  nation  forms  the 
basis  of  its  Art  Music.  But  **folk-song"  is  a  word  of 
many  meanings.  It  may  be  a  song  that  antedates 
our  modern  musical  notation,  as  does  the  quaint 
song  of  German  night-watchmen  (still  used  in  many 
small  German  cities)  which  Wagner  introduced 
into  his  *'Meistersinger.'*  Thus  the  folk-song  may 
have  come  to  us  through  purely  oral  tradition  or  it 
may  be  of  more  recent  origin  and  yet  be  one  of  those 
things  which,  like  Topsy,  "just  growed" — and  there 
are  such  in  America — or  its  author  may  be  known 
and  he  may  have  struck  the  home-note  with  such 
force  of  truth  that  the  people  of  the  land  accepted 
it  and  made  it  their  own  (as  Silcher's  "Lorelei**  in 
Germany  and  Stephen  Foster's  "Old  Folks  at 
Home**  in  our  country);  and  those  people  of  the 
land  who  thus  established  the  folk-song,  whatever 
country  we  may  think  of,  always  and  everywhere 
belong  to  that  class  which  we  designate  as  the 
lowly,  the  humble,  the  suffering. 
[  74  1 


NATIONAL   MUSIC  AND    THE  NEGRO 

As  a  nation  we  Americans  are  not  sufferers.  Our 
prosperity  has  been  seldom,  and  never  long,  inter- 
rupted. We  are  politically  free  in  a  measure  the 
world  has  never  known  before.  We  are  strong 
and  wealthy  as  a  nation,  almost  beyond  reasonable 
necessity.  We  are  quick,  clever,  alert,  intelligent. 
All  of  which  is  very  fine  and  (who  knows?)  perhaps 
better  than  the  possession  of  a  National  Art.  Our 
millionaire  does  not  feel  the  absence  of  a  national 
art.  He  obtains  his  objets  d'art  from  Europe,  as  he 
does  his  musicians;  and  the  rest  of  us,  why,  we  have 
always  the  "free  libraries,"  you  know,  and  need  not 
complain.  But  if  we  recollect  the  words  of  Scott  in 
the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel":  "Breathes  there  a 
man  with  soul  so  dead";  if  we  look  into  any  book  of 
musical  aphorisms  and  contemplate  the  thoughts 
on  national  art  expressed  by  all  great  thinkers  from 
Confucius  to  Herbert  Spencer,  we  find  that  National 
Art,  and  especially  National  Music,  is,  after  all, 
not  a  mere  court-plaster  beauty-spot  on  the  well- 
fed  cheek  of  a  nation,  not  an  effete  luxury,  but  a 
serious  necessity  for  the  constructive  force  of  na- 
tional feeling,  of  national  sentiment.  It  is  a  discipline 
of  emotion,  a  heart  education  to  the  ignorant,  a 
stimulus  to  the  callous,  a  delight  to  the  educated,  an 
inspiration  to  the  patriot,  a  solace  to  the  sufferer, 
a  hope  to  the  humane.  The  inspiration  of  reverence 
for,  and  pride  in,  the  departed  heroes  of  its  nation, 
which  the  native  child  and  youth  receives  from 
[75] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

national  monuments,  ripens  into  patriotic  resolution 
and  deed  through  the  living  sound  of  national  music. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  explain  why  the  germs  of  a 
national  music  must  come  from  the  suffering,  for 
we  know  that  the  song  of  joy  is  quickly  sung,  while 
the  epic  of  grief  has  many  cantos.  If  we  now  seek 
out  him  who  was,  and  in  many  respects  still  is,  the 
sufferer  among  us,  whom  do  we  find?  Is  it  the 
laborer?  He  is  better  paid  than  elsewhere.  Is  it 
the  throng  of  foreign  immigrants  who  know  not 
even  the  language  of  the  country?  Who,  then,  is 
there  in  this  country  that  is  at  all  comparable  to 
the  Russian  serf  of  old  or  the  German  peasant  of 
feudal  times?  Who  is  it  that  despite  the  best  of 
education  cannot — and  perhaps  should  not— rise 
to  the  birthrank  of  a  white  man?  The  Chinese? 
He  carries  his  wall  with  him  wherever  he  goes,  as 
the  Britisher  does  with  his  island.  Is  it  the  Indian, 
the  "noble"  red  man?  His  proportion  to  the  popu- 
lation is  homeopathic,  and  were  it  not  for  history- 
lessons,  pleasure  travel,  and  Cooper's  "Leather 
Stocking,"  our  youngsters  would  scarcely  know 
him,  because  the  tendency  of  his  life  has  been  to 
keep  him  aloof  from  our  civilization.  He  does  not 
wait  at  our  table.  His  wife  does  not  nurse  our  babies. 
He  is  not  a  part  of  our  household,  a  part  of  our  daily 
environment,  of  our  life.  But  the  negro  answers  to 
all  of  these  requirements.  He  is  a  prominent  trait 
in  the  physiognomy  of  this  country  and  however 
f  76  1 


NATIONAL   MUSIC  AND    THE   NEGRO 

unbridgeable  the  chasm  that  may  forever  separate 
him  from  the  white  man  sociallyy  whatever  degree 
of  darkness  his  skin  may  show,  he  is  a  fact  and  a 
factor  in  the  Hves  of  all  our  people;  a  characteristic 
and  interesting  factor  who — by  the  way — is  much 
dearer  to  our  white  man  than  he  seems  to  admit  to 
himself. 

In  the  place  of  amusement  where  the  mask  of  con- 
ventional formality  is  shaken  off  by  laughter  and 
where  **  'tis  proper  for  a  man  to  laugh,"  the  white 
man  greets  the  negro  on  the  stage  with  a  familiarity 
which  casts  a  strong  and  favorable  light  upon  the 
present  argument.  There  is  no  figure  in  the  play 
that  looks  as  familiar  to  him,  be  he  rich  or  poor, 
young  or  old,  as  does  the  **coon";  no  song  appeals  as 
quickly  and  pathetically  to  the  white  American  of 
any  class  or  educational  degree  as  does  the  negro 
song,  the  plantation  melody,  with  its  weird,  strange 
plaint iveness.  It  has  been  said  that  many  of  these 
melodies  were  written  by  white  men,  but  this,  far 
from  being  an  argument  against  the  thought  ex- 
pressed here,  rather  favors  it,  for  it  shows  how 
deeply  interested  the  white  man  must  have  been  in 
the  negro  to  be  capable  of  uttering  the  latter's 
sentiments  so  well  that  he  took  the  white  man*s 
voice  for  his  own — and  the  public  fully  concurred 
with  him.     The  negro  is  not 

....  of  those  who  never  sing. 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them. 

f  77  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

In  his  song  he  speaks  out  without  restraint,  free, 
crude,  clumsily,  perhaps  even  harshly  at  times,  but 
also  genuinely  as  the  cry  of  an  animal,  primordial, 
forceful,  definite,  and  as  he  is  the  only  one  among 
us  who  can  afford  to  do  so,  it  must  logically  be  he 
who  lays  the  cornerstone  to  American  Music. 
Our  composers  should  look  into  his  store  of  melody, 
they  should  carefully  study  the  raw  material  he 
furnishes,  and  in  so  doing  they  should  leave  the 
racial  aspect  of  the  matter  entirely  out  of  their 
thoughts.  A  careful  study  of  the  history  of  American 
slavery  shows  that  pirates  have  contributed  but  a 
very  small  proportion  to  the  American  slave  trade. 
The  main  supply  came  from  Portugal,  where  (1402) 
five  thousand  low-caste  negro  men  and  women  were 
accepted  by  Henry  the  Navigator  as  a  ransom  for 
fifty  high-caste  Moors.  From  1402  until  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century  these  negro  slaves  lived 
and  multiplied  in  Portugal.  During  these  150  years 
they  lost  their  African  language  and  their  race 
memory  and  had,  in  exchange,  learned  to  sing — 
purely  by  imitation,  of  course.  In  their  original 
African  home  their  semi-animal  tribes  had  no  song; 
they  used  only  primitive  instruments  of  percussion 
in  conjunction  with  shouts  and  wails.  What  they 
learned  to  sing  in  Portugal  were,  of  course,  Portu- 
guese songs. 

Brazil  is  Portuguese  in  language  and  coinage  to 

this  day,  as  we  know.    When  John  III  granted  the 

f  78  1 


NATIONAL    MUSIC  AND    THE  NEGRO 

land  in  parcels  of  50  miles  to  the  Portuguese  nobles, 
they  brought  their  slaves  with  them  to  do  the  rough 
work  of  building,  plowing,  etc.  It  was  these  Portu- 
guese nobles  who  introduced  the  traffic  in  slaves  to 
the — then — English  Colonies.  Here  the  slaves,  in 
time,  lost  their  Portuguese  language  and,  naturally, 
adapted  their  Portuguese  melodies  to  the  cadence 
of  English  speech  which  they  had  learned.  The 
chiefest  alterations  made  in  the  old  melodies  were 
those  of  rhythm,  owing  to  the  great  difference 
between  the  cadence  of  Portuguese  and  English 
speech. 

There  is  much  more  to  be  said  on  this  point,  but 
this  brief  historical  sketch  might  suffice  to  remove 
the  terrible  odium  from  our  negro  melodies  of 
being  of  African  origin.  The  negro  melody  was 
"white"  from  the  outset. 

The  delver  into  race  mysteries*  may  herein  find 
something  like  an  explanation  of  the  odd  phenome- 
non that  the  negro's  song  strikes  the  white  man  here 
as  most  homelike  and  familiar.  And  this  forms  a 
reasonable  and  safe  basis  for  the  white  man  upon 
which  to  build  his  art-music.  (The  Russian  school 
started  in  a  similar  way.)  There  is  no  cause  for  any 
resentment  in  this  thought.  As  the  negro's  labor 
supplies  the  raw  material  to  our  cotton,  sugar,  and 
several  other  industries,  we  may  as  well  use  the  crude 

•E.  J.  Payne,  History  of  European  Colonies;  R.  G.  Watson,  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  America;  R.  Soutney,  History  of  Brazil;  and  othera. 

f  79  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

material  of  his  song.  And  when  we  contemplate 
the  vast  amount  of  white-man's  ingenuity,  skill  and 
refined  taste  that  is  ready  to  begin  the  work  of 
creating  a  national  art-music  we  have  every  reason 
to  predict  that  the  edifice  of  art  erected  by  the 
Caucasian  upon  the  clumsy  but  strong  Ethiopian 
foundation  will  endear  it  to  the  people  of  our 
country  and  make  it  the  wonder  of  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

The  redemptive  power  of  Art,  of  Music  especially, 
is  boundless.  What  the  great  thinkers  of  all  ages 
have  said  of  it,  every  earnest  artist  has  put  to  the 
test  of  his  own  life  in  his  own  way,  and  found 
true.  Music  is,  therefore,  not  limited  to  the  domain 
of  mere  amusement,  nor  even  to  that  wider  realm 
which  comprises  the  pleasures  of  higher  order.  It 
must  be  recognized  that  Music  is  a  potent  factor 
in  the  construction  of  human  society.  To  be  sure, 
Music  does  not  formulate  the  laws  of  society,  but 
it  attunes  the  lawmaker's  heart  and  mind  to  love 
of  mankind,  to  fairness  and  equity,  by  arousing 
the  best  instincts  in  him.  There  is  no  phase  of  life 
so  distant  that  the  radiating  warmth  of  Music 
may  not  reach  it;  and  it  would  be  strange,  indeed, 
if  the  much  mooted  "negro  problem"  were  the  one 
and  only  exception.  The  harsh  feelings,  embittering 
the  racial  division,  could  surely  be  softened  by  the 
power  of  song.  If  the  white  man  accepts  the  negro's 
song  as  a  crude  basis  for  his  National  Art,  and  if  in 
[80] 


NATIONAL   MUSIC  AND    THE   NEGRO 

the  white  man's  Symphony  the  black  man  should, 
here  and  there,  feel  a  beat  of  his  own  pulse,  he  would 
surely  be  more  inclined  to  accept  for  himself  the 
place  assigned  to  him  by  the  friendly  white  man. 
Thus  the  chasm  which  separates  the  races  would 
be  bridged  by  a  structure  too  airy  for  the  foot  to 
tread  upon  but  yet  strong  enough  for  the  heart  to 
feel  its  presence.  This  bridge  of  song — it  should 
be  built!  And,  though  it  be  no  more  substantial 
than  the  rainbow,  its  airy  structure  would  in  its 
significance  be  just  as  beautiful  and  strong  a  symbol 
of  peace. 


[81  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

Deeply  rooted  among  the  noblest  traits  of  the  human 
heart  is  a  feeling  of  reverence  for  virtue,  learning 
and  merit.  No  man,  however  ignorant,  radical  or 
corrupt,  when  facing  one  who  possesses  virtue, 
learning  and  merit  equal  or  superior  to  his  own,  fails 
to  show  him  a  respect  that  intimates  not  only 
appreciation,  but  also  identification  of  the  man  with 
his  deserts.  In  other  words  he  does  not  respect  a 
man's  merits  in  ahstradOy  but  he  respects,  for  his 
merits,  the  man  himself — unless  the  man  to  be 
respected  is  an  artist.  The  artist  forms  the  only 
exception  from  the  rule.  In  his  presence  the  average 
man  hesitates  to  display  such  feelings.  He  may, 
if  the  artist's  work  pleases  him,  reward  it  with  a 
compliment,  conventional  or  enthusiastic,  but 
further  he  will  not  go.  Apart  from  his  work  the 
artist  is  treated  as  a  stranger  to  whom  the  con- 
ventionally respectable  feel — or  at  any  rate  show — 
no  inclination  to  approach  more  closely.  To  the 
length  of  actual  discourtesy  they  may  not  go,  but 
that  feeling  which  prompts  them  to  look  up  to  the 
preeminent  followers  of  any  other  honest  pursuit, 
that  sense  of  mental  distance  never  asserts  itself 
in  our  average  man;  both  in  feeling  and  demeanor 
he  will  discriminate  against  the  artist.  • 
The  warrior,  statesman,  scientist,  merchant — each 
of  them  meets  with  respectful  attention  when  seen 
[  85  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

in  public.  Their  success  is  a  matter  of  public  com- 
ment; if  their  plans  miscarry,  causing  failure  and 
disaster,  their  censure  is  equally  general.  At  times 
their  failures  have  aroused  public  wrath  to  such  a 
degree  that  their  very  lives  were  threatened,  or 
even  destroyed.  Yet  such  intensity  of  public  senti- 
ment proves  merely  how  implicit  was  the  trust 
granted  them,  how  high  the  respect  bestowed  on 
them  before  their  downfall. 

And  yet  nations,  empires,  religions  and  civilizations 
have  come  and  gone  and  almost  faded  out  of  the 
memory  of  man,  leaving  behind  them  as  evidence  of 
their  existence  only  a  few  great  works  of — Art. 
Their  conquests,  their  power,  their  wealth,  are  gone 
never  to  return;  their  commerce  is  dead;  their 
sciences  are  outlived — only  the  art-works  left 
behind  live  in  uncontested  merit,  in  undiminished 
beauty,  in  immutable  grandeur!  Neither  war  nor 
commerce  has  ever  directly  enriched  man's  psychic 
or  inner  life.  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  has  aimed  at 
nothing  else.  Why  is  it,  then,  that  men  who  give 
their  whole  lives  to  the  realization  of  those  highest 
and  noblest  purposes  are  practically  shut  out  from 
the  firesides  of  their  fellowmen? 
If  anything  beyond  his  fee  be  ever  accorded  to  the 
artist,  it  is,  perchance,  an  occasional  friendly  slap 
on  the  back,  fraught  with  presumptious  familiarity 
and  saying  as  plainly  as  words  might:  **You  are  a 
queer  sort.  Half  crank,  half  enthusiast,  improvident, 
[86  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

impractical.  But  you  are  harmless,  and  what  you 
do  rather  pleases  me.  Of  course,  you  hardly  know 
how  you  do  it;  nor  do  I  suppose  you  know  much  of 
anything  outside  of  what  you  call  your  Art — and 
goodness  knows  that  that  part  you  cannot  help! 
You  were  born  with  it.  But,  as  I  said,  I  kind  o* 
like  it,  and — well,  you  may  come  to  see  me  some- 
time, 1*11  introduce  you  to  the  children — .'* 
History  proves  that  this  is  not  overdrawn.  Leaving 
aside  the  author  of  the  Iliad — although  the  doubt 
thrown  on  his  very  existence  might  well  serve  as  an 
illustration  of  the  point  in  question — and  beginning 
at  a  more  recent  date,  Dante  might  be  mentioned. 
It  seems  improbable  that  a  man  of  his  all-embracing 
love  of  humanity  should  have  become  a  recluse  from 
choice.  Nor  can  it  be  assumed  of  Tasso.  Michael 
Angelo  told  his  townsmen:  **Cain  was  of  your 
ancestors — I  know  you  do  not  shamp  his  lineage," 
which  does  not  suggest  a  very  sociable  footing  with 
them.  The  Shakespeare-Bacon  controversy  with  all 
its  serious  or  foolish  claims  and  counterclaims  could 
scarcely  have  arisen  had  respectful  attention  been 
paid  to  Shakespeare,  the  man,  in  his  lifetime. 
Turner  and  Byron  might  also  be  mentioned  among 
those  who  were  petted  as  artists  and  ignored  as  men. 
Emphatic  illustration  of  public  underestimation 
of  the  man  (if  not  also  of  the  artist)  are  obtained 
from  the  lives  of  Bach,  Mozart,  Schubert,  and  other 
great  musicians.  Not  until  King  Ludwig's  shield 
[  87  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

protected  him — and  did  it  single  handed,  so  to 
speak — was  Wagner  respected  as  a  man,  though 
at  that  time  his  Tannhauser,  Lohengrin  and  Flying 
Dutchman  had  already  found  their  way  into  the 
people's  hearts.  Not  even  the  financially  successful 
artists  have  been  honored  by  the  general  public  for 
virtues  not  relating  to  their  art;  their  learning, 
their  manly  courage,  their  morality,  their  broadness 
of  view — not  at  least  unless  they  enforced  such 
recognition  by  means  foreign  to  their  life-work  and 
by  methods  which  almost  imperilled  their  personal 
dignity.  In  this  case  might  be  mentioned  as  illustra- 
tion the  names  of  Rubens,  Metastasio,  and  Liszt. 
The  foremost  few  in  culture  and  social  stations  have 
— in  the  old  world — always  favored  familiar  inter- 
course with  artists.  Emperors,  Kings  and  Popes 
have  frequently  conferred  high  distinctions  upon 
men  of  artistic  genius  with  the  obvious  purpose  of 
opening  the  people's  eyes  to  their  high  personal 
qualities.  But  all  such  efforts  were  in  vain.  Though 
at  times  enthusiastic  enough  over  the  artist's  work, 
the  public  have  but  grudgingly  conceded  to  the 
man,  himself,  that  personal  esteem  which  he — as 
we  shall  see — so  well  deserves,  and  which  is  so 
readily  and  generously  granted  to  men  in  other 
pursuits. 

This  is  said  with  full  cognizance  of  the  large  sums 

received,  and  the  gushing  lionizing  experienced,  by 

a  few  foreign  artists  in  recent  years.    Money  hat 

[88] 


TEE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

no  bearing  upon  this  subject,  and  the  vogue  of  a 
season  is  no  criterion  of  personal  esteem.  Further- 
more, isolated  instances — and  such  these  were — 
only  prove  the  rule. 

This  general  and  unwise  discrimination  against  the 
artist  has  not  been  mentioned  in  a  spirit  of  complaint, 
but  because  the  fact  was  needed  to  throw  light  upon 
the  subject;  a  light  not  only  characteristic,  but  also 
necessary  for  a  rational  discussion. 
A  widely  spread  belief  exists  that  artistic  ability 
originates  solely,  or  mainly  at  least,  in  a  mysterious 
and  rare  gift  of  nature  called  "Talent."  This  word 
is  used  by  the  great  mass  of  people  to  account  for  the 
beauty  and  power  of  an  artist's  work  as  well  as  for 
the  mental  and  moral  elevation,  erudition,  courage, 
and  sincerity  manifested  therein. 
Here  and  there  a  vague  suspicion  may  obtain  that 
the  artist  might  have  to  perform  a  small  amount  of 
actual  work  to  gain  his  skill.  This  work,  however, 
is  thought  to  be  of  a  rather  pleasurable  kind — more 
play,  as  it  were,  than  work.  The  main  source  of  his 
ability  is  always  supposed  to  be  "Talent.*'  This 
being  a  free  gift  of  Nature  and  innate,  the  happy 
possessor  of  it  is  not  deemed  worthy  of  any  par- 
ticular credit  for  his  achievements  save  his  stipu- 
lated fee.  Persons  of  culture  realize,  of  course,  that 
a  fine  art-work  is  a  serious  interpretation  of  life. 
Nevertheless  even  they — led  astray,  perhaps,  by 
misconception  of  the  theories  of  Schopenhauer  and 
189] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Hartmann — often  consider  the  artist  himself,  the 
man  in  the  artist,  as  not  quite  responsible  for  his 
own  work.  Unless  it  be  bad  .  .  . . !  If  good,  the  credit 
belongs  really  to  Nature,  to  God,  not  to  the  man. 
In  its  last  analysis,  this  view  is  correct.  No  fault 
could  or  should  be  found  with  it,  were  it  not,  in  that 
last  analysis,  reserved  exclusively  for  the  artist. 
It  is  hardly  fair  to  assume  that  the  average  man 
spends  his  life  on  the  thought-plane  of  last  analyses. 
Therefore  it  cannot  be  this  that  prompts  his  mental 
attitude  toward  the  artist,  but  rather  his  erroneous 
conception  of  the  phenomenon  he  calls  "talent" 
and  his  extreme  ignorance  of  its  frequency,  ay,  its 
ubiquity. 

Talent,  no  doubt,  is  a  mystery.  The  blackberry 
that  drops  from  the  branch;  the  fear  that  quivers 
in  our  bosoms;  the  bird  that  wings  its  way  across 
the  sky;  the  thought  that  flashes  through  the  human 
brain — each  of  them  is  a  mystery.  But  instead  of 
giving  rise  to  mere  vulgar  superstition,  the  par- 
ticular mystery  called  "talent"  should  have  tempted 
the  best  powers  of  the  human  mind  to  a  careful 
investigation  of  its  true  aspect  and  position.  Talent 
will  probably  remain  a  mystery  forever,  but  this 
mystery  should  be  divested  of  the  false  attributes 
with  which  ignorance,  indolence  and  humbug  have 
clothed  it.  It  should  be  freed  of  its  stagey  en- 
cumbrances, so  that,  unmarred  by  fictitious  qualities, 
it  may  shine  forth  in  its  own  true  light.  Instead  of 
[  90  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

giving  the  entire  credit  for  the  artist's  work  to  God 
the  world  should  rather  give  Him  praise  for  having 
distributed  talent  so  lavishly  among  mankind. 
A  full  realization  of  the  commonness  of  that  gift 
leads  to  the  logical  conclusion  that  talent  plays  not 
so  large  a  part  by  far  in  the  achievements  of  the 
artist  as  is  generally  supposed.  Devoid  of  talent, 
one  cannot  become  an  artist,  to  be  sure;  but  in  the 
possession  of  it  lies  but  a  small  fraction  of  the 
artistic  equipment.  The  main  portion  of  that  equip- 
ment must  be  laboriously  and  painstakingly  ac- 
quired, and  it  can  be  acquired  only  by  practicing 
the  higher  virtues  and  exercising  the  finer  qualities 
of  heart  and  mind — will-power,  industry,  stead- 
fastness, self-discipline  and,  above  all,  love. 
What,  then,  is  the  popular  idea  about  talent?  It  is 
a  combination  of  notions  partly  superficial  and  partly 
absurd.  It  is,  for  instance,  often  thought  that  to  a 
person  with  talent  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 
and  executive  skill  comes  easy.  Though  seemingly 
warranted,  this  notion  is  flatly  contradicted  by  the 
lives  of  all  artists,  and  with  particular  force  by  the 
lives  of  the  greatest  among  them.  Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit 
is  perhaps  more  true  in  art  than  anywhere  else. 
Music,  above  all  other  arts,  makes  inordinate  de- 
mands upon  the  artist's  nervous  as  well  as  muscular 
force. 

Music,  one  may  add,  means  to  a  numerous  class  of 

people  only  a  pleasant,  ear-tickling  jingle.  Thought 

f  91  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

is  never  looked  for  by  them  but,  at  best,  just  a 
primitive  tonal  design.  Many  amateurs,  so  called, 
who  cater  to  this  class  of  people,  possess  undoubtedly 
a  certain  "knack"  which,  however,  far  from  de- 
serving the  dignified  name  of  talent,  is  a  purely 
imitative  trait  which  they  have  in  common  with 
many  birds  and  animals.  As  the  trained  canary 
pipes  his  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  in  perfect  innocence 
of  any  sentiment,  domestic  or  otherwise,  so  the 
facile  amateur  jingles  away,  satisfied  by  catching 
his  easily  pleased  listener's  ear  and  indifferent  to  the 
possibility  of  making  the  primary  appeal  to  that 
organ  a  means  of  stirring  mind  and  heart.  The 
first  step  towards  a  serious  study  of  music  makes 
this  amateurish  knack  dwindle  to  nothing,  if  not 
even  become  an  impediment — which,  fortunately, 
it  mostly  does. 

Another  notion,  endorsed  by  the  dictionaries,  is 
that — to  quote  the  most  popular  one — "talent  is 
an  unusual,  natural  endowment  of  a  specific  kind, 
as  for  instance,  for  music.'*  Here  is  a  store  of  errors 
in  one  sentence!  Talent  is  neither  "specific"  nor 
"unusual,"  and  if  it  be  "natural" — as  all  things  are 
in  a  certain  sense — it  is  so  to  no  greater  extent  than 
heroism,  virtue,  honor,  and  other  qualities  which 
are  never  unappreciated  because  "natural."  Assum- 
ing, however,  talent  to  be  specific — "as  for  instance, 
for  music" — whereof  should  it  consist?  Of  an  extra- 
ordinary adaptability  of  the  hand?  If  so,  which 
[  92  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

shape  of  hand  is  most  adaptable?  Two  pair  of  hands 
were  never  more  different  in  appearance  than  those 
of  Liszt  and  Rubinstein.  The  former's  thin-featured 
hand  and  long,  spiderlike  fingers  seemed  incapable 
of  a  performance  d  la  Jupiter  tonans  on  the  key- 
board such  as  I  have  seen  them  render  more  than 
once;  while  on  the  other  side,  Rubinstein's  massive, 
almost  elephantine  hands  and  thick  fingers  looked 
equally  incapable  of  the  bewitchingly  sweet  and 
tender  touch  that  so  often  set  me  marvelling — and 
admiring.  The  hands  of  still  living  pianists  who  may 
be  called  "great"  represent  all  types  and  shapes. 
There  is  no  uniformity  among  them  except  in  the 
number  of  digital  appendages;  and  that  cannot  very 
well  be  regarded  as  "unusual." 
Perhaps  a  "musical  ear"  constitutes  the  specific 
natural  endowment?  The  actual  meaning  of  that 
popular  phrase  is  somewhat  difficult  to  find  out. 
Probably  tone-memory  is  implied.  Many  persons 
possess  it  and  so  do  many  animals  and  birds. 
Cavalry  horses — not  to  speak  of  their  riders — learn 
readily  to  distinguish  between  the  various  bugle- 
calls.  Dancing  bears,  trained  monkeys,  snakes  and 
other  animals  unfailingly  recognize  the  pieces 
accompanying  their  performances.  Parrots,  jays, 
canaries,  mocking  birds  and,  in  fact,  most  singing 
birds  are  gifted  with  memory  for  tone  and  tune. 
This  quality,  therefore,  has  no  right  to  be  regarded 
as  "an  unusual  endowment  of  Nature,"  and  still 
[  93  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

less  as  one  to  which  the  artistic  ability  of  the 
musician  could  be  exclusively,  or  even  chiefly, 
attributed.  It  may  be  that  a  peculiar  acuteness  of 
perception  and  discernment  of  pitch  is  referred  to 
by  those  who  talk  of  a  "musical  ear."  Unfortunately, 
most  of  the  great  masters  did  not  even  possess  that 
quality  of  hearing  which  is  known  as  "absolute 
pitch,"  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  sometimes 
found  among  musicians  of  the  lower  and  lowest 
rank.  And  it  is  a  quality  that  every  normal  ear  can 
acquire  by  a  very  little  training. 
The  combination  of  tone-memory  and  that  ques- 
tionable "knack"  mentioned  before  produces  some- 
times the  phenomenon  known  as  "playing  by  ear." 
This  symptom  of  "talent"  is  a  very  alarming  one. 
It  is  largely  incurable,  and  when  it  breaks  out,  those 
who  are  within  hearing  distance,  even  if  of  small 
musical  discernment,  are  made  to  suffer  excru- 
ciatingly. Parrots  of  the  beaked  and  feathered 
kind  are  much  to  be  preferred.  They  are  usually 
superior  in  accuracy. 

The  "power  of  improvisation"  is  often  also  referred 
to  as  a  sign  of  "talent."  To  hear  our  swagger 
dilettanti  "improvise,"  makes  us,  in  spite  of  all, 
prefer  their  playing  by  ear.  The  aimless  progression 
of  combinations  that  "happen,"  but  which  are  none 
the  less  well-worn  and  chosen  automatically,  is 
devoid  of  all  musical  sense.  The  English  language 
should  not  dignify  that  kind  of  thing  with  the  term 
[  94  ] 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

"improvisation,"  since  it  possesses  a  much  more 
accurate  designation  for  it  in  the  word  "twaddle." 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  an  artist  improvises  in  public, 
he  has  carefully  trained  himself  to  do  it.  He  has 
laid  in  a  fine  stock  of  turns  and  schemes  and  has 
cultivated  a  certain  repartee-like  quickness  of 
utterance.  Improvisation  used  to  be  an  obligatory 
part  of  every  good  musician's  training  (not  of  his 
"innate  talent"),  but  it  fell  into  desuetude  except 
as  a  pastime,  because  it  was  found  to  be  useless, 
and  the  world  is  not  much  the  poorer  for  its  loss. 
A  good  ear,  tone-memory,  and  an  apt  hand  are, 
indeed,  necessary  to  the  musician,  but  not  more  so 
than  good  air,  clear  water  and  wholesome  food. 
Since  the  public  entirely  overlooks  these  material 
factors  as  causes  of  musical  ability,  it  has  forfeited 
the  right  to  seek  such  causes  exclusively  in  the 
organic  qualities  mentioned.  For  persons  who  have 
a  good  ear,  tone-memory,  and  an  apt  hand,  are  more 
numerous  by  far  than  those  to  whom  good  air, 
clear  water  and  wholesome  food  have  been  granted 
by  a  kindly  fate. 

Substituting  eyes  for  ears,  the  entire  argument 
becomes  applicable  to  the  graphic  arts.  Exchanging 
them  for  a  few  other  external  qualities,  such  as  a 
sonorous  speaking  voice  and  a  shapely  figure,  it 
extends  to  histrionics. 

Having  stripped  the  "natural  endowments"  of  all 

their  rarity,  having  shown  that  ear,  memory  and 

[  95  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

aptitude,  when  simply  normal,  are  quite  suflScient 
for  any  one  as  a  starting  outfit  in  music,  the  qualities 
and  faculties  which  really  do  form  the  basis  of 
artistic  mastership  should  now  be  considered.  Only 
through  a  proper  recognition  of  these  faculties  and 
qualities  may  a  popular  superstition  be  changed 
into  a  rational  regard  for  things  far  more  serious 
than  mere  physical  aptitude  and  for  matters  which 
will  be  found  to  bear  the  stamp  of  dignity,  virtue, 
and  true  merit. 


Art,  to  use  the  most  frequently  employed  metaphor, 
is  a  temple  where  the  human  heart  prays  for  a 
fuller  utterance  of  its  joys  and  sorrows;  where  God 
and  nature  and  the  heart  of  man  are  the  sole  theme 
of  all  sermons;  and  where  the  True  and  the  Good 
are  manifested  through  the  Divine  principle  of  the 
Beautiful.  Large  terraces  lead  up  to  this  temple; 
they  are  the  preparatory  stages  of  those  who  aspire 
to  its  priesthood.  From  the  lowest  plane,  that  of 
the  apprenticeship,  through  the  stage  of  journey- 
man to  the  highest  one — that  of  master  of  the  craft 
— the  aspirant  must  work.  He  must  learn  the  great 
lesson  of  self-denial,  of  obediencey  and  of  hard, 
tedious,  monotonous,  highly  unpleasant,  but,  in 
spite  of  all,  unremitting  work.  And  still  another 
lesson,  the  hardest  of  all,  he  must  learn,  to  work 
without  a  promise  of  reward  I  For  there  is  a  stern, 
disheartening  law  which  ordains  that  those  who  have 
[06  1 


TEE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

attained  to  mastership  must,  for  their  admittance 
into  the  priesthood  of  the  temple,  submit  to  an 
election  by  voters  who  are  not  even  known  to  them. 
How  many  brave  and  faithful  workers  fail  in  this 
election  and  are  barred  from  the  priesthood — 
barred  forever! 

However,  not  a  few  keep  up  their  courage,  undis- 
mayed by  the  great  uncertainty,  and  work  on  and 
on  during  their  apprenticeship  until  they  reach  the 
next  degree.  Here,  already,  many  turn  away  and 
abandon  their  course.  Only  a  few  hold  out  until 
they  arrive  at  mastership)  and  then — ah,  then  all 
depends  upon  the  mysterious  election.  Failing  in 
this,  they  are  free  to  leave  and  seek  other  occu- 
pations— which  many  of  them  do — or  to  remain  in 
the  service  of  the  priesthood:  but  attain  to  it  they 
never  will  or  can. 

Now,  to  serve  a  noble  cause,  even  in  a  humble 
station,  is  not  without  joy.  Some  of  the  disappointed 
candidates  find  contentment  in  this,  but  not  with- 
out many  a  painful  inward  struggle,  for  wh^n  the 
direful  "No"  sounds  from  the  portal  of  the  temple, 
it  is  uttered  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  crushing  long- 
cherished  hopes  and  stunning  the  hearts  of  the  luck- 
less ones.  Among  them  there  may  be  one  who  can- 
not reconcile  himself  to  his  failure.  He  is  quite 
willing  to  remain  the  servant  of  the  temple,  for  he 
has  many  dear  friends  among  the  priests;  but  he 
rebels  in  his  heart  at  what  seems  to  him  a  crying 
injustice. 

[97] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

^ 

**Why,"  he  asks  again  and  again,  "why  was  I  not 
elected?  Have  I  not  worked  as  faithfully  as  any- 
body? Is  not  my  workmanship  of  the  best?" 
No  one  knows  the  answer,  no  one  replies.  One  day, 
however,  some  friend  and  former  comrade  in  the 
struggle,  now  risen  into  full  priesthood,  may  be 
moved  to  compassion  by  his  grief  and  resolves  to 
bring  him  such  consolation  as  he  can. 
"Why,"  he  asks  the  unfortunate  one,  "why  did 
you  aspire  to  the  priesthood?  What  gave  you  the 
persistence  to  keep  up  your  long  and  dreary  trial 
work?" 

"The  hope  of  reward!  The  proud  prospect  of  seeing 
the  masses  bow  when  I  became  a  priest!  The  ex- 
pectation of  honor,  glory,  splendor,  of  power  over 
others,  of — " 

The  priestly  friend  replies,  his  hands  upraised 
As  if  to  intercept  the  utterance 
Of  some  heart-tainting  blasphemy: 
"Such  hopes,  my  friend,  are  sinful  and  they  should 
No  shelter  find  in  honest,  noble  hearts. 
But  stay — ^perchance  you  fail  to  comprehend 
Your  own  soul's  deepest,  innermost  desires. 
Come,  let  me  ask  you  as  a  proven  friend — 
For  we  are  friends,  I  trust,  as  good  as  ever: 
Was  there  no  higher  longing  in  your  heart? 
Deep  in  your  soul  did  you  not  feel  the  urging 
Of  messages  that  none  could  voice  but  you? 
Of  visions,  dreams  that  strove  to  be  revealed, 
[  98  1 


TEE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

Delivered  to  mankind  from  yonder  shrine 

Where  all  the  world  could  hear  and  profit  by  them? 

Were  you  not  wearied  by  the  long  delay 

Of  that  sweet  hour  that  brings  (if  you  are  chosen) 

The  consecration  and  the  right  to  preach 

The  thoughts  that  thronged  your  mind,  to  speak 

your  message? 
Was  not  your  toil-worn  patience  sorely  tried? 
Mine  own  has  threatened  to  give  out  full  often, 
And  many  times,  indeed,  my  heart  grew  faint. 
The  tempter  whispered:  *Go!  Desert  thy  labors,' 
And  more  than  once  have  I  been  near  to  yielding; 
But  when  I  came  to  do  it — ah,  my  friend, 
A  thousand  heartstrings  tied  me  to  this  temple 
And,  though  rebellious,  inwardly  I  felt: 
My  place,  my  life  is  Here!  And  if  I  leave — 
The  message  in  my  heart  remains  unspoken. 
And  this,  my  friend,  could  never  be,  lest  I 
Should  suffer  woes  and  heartaches  past  all  telling, 
Unceasing  like  the  agonies  of  Hades, 
Lest  I  should  perish — wretched  and  a  fool!" 
"No,"  says  the  disappointed  workman  after  a  pause 
of  musing  wonderment,   "such  highflown  notions 
never  occurred  to  me.  But  what  of  it?  Was  not  my 
workmanship  as  good  as  yours?    And  does  it  count 
for  naught?" 

"Far  from  it,  friend.   Look  but  around  and  see 
How  few  can  do  such  goodly  work  as  yours. 
The  priesthood  cannot  spare  a  skilful  master 
[  99  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Whom  we  have  tried  and  know,  he  can  be  trusted. 

Of  honor  a  fair  measure  will  be  yours; 

And  who  shall  teach  the  neophyte  but  you? — 

Of  course,  your  work  shall  have  to  be  prescribed; 

But  you  devote  it  to  a  glorious  end; 

To  carry  out  the  plans,  the  dreams  of  Genius 

You  will  contribute  an  important  part ! 

The  highest  bliss  the  soul  of  man  can  feel: 

To  give  its  dreams  enduring  form  and  fashion, 

A  lasting  life  unto  its  thoughts  and  fancies, 

Interpreting  man's  life,  to  show  the  heavens 

As  they  are  mirrored  in  his  soul's  recesses; 

To  voice  what  moves  and  stirs  the  hearts  of  others 

And  what  they  long,  but  vainly  strive,  to  utter; 

To  feel  with  them  and  help  that  they  may  know 

Each  other  better,  and  to  be  the  breath. 

The  voice  of  all  mankind;  to  feel  yourself 

As  one  with  those  whom  God  has  made  your 

brothers — 
That  ecstasy  of  heart  and  soul,  that  highest 
Beatitude  can  nevermore  be  yours. 
Do  not  repine,  my  friend,  but  thank  your  fortune 
That — since  your  heart  is  free  from  such  desires — 
The  priestly  robe  is  not  upon  your  shoulders. 
For  you  with  open  eyes  might  then  have  gazed 
And  yet  not  seen  the  temple  mysteries. 
Believe  me,  friend,  that  to  a  heart  like  yours 
The  priesthood  should  have  turned  a  mocking 

shadow." 

f  100  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

And  most  probably  it  would.  For  his  patience  was 
stolidity;  his  perseverance,  covetousness;  his  aspira- 
tions, mere  ambition.  Vanity  and  lust  after  power 
held  in  his  heart  the  place  that  should  have  been 
filled  by  the  "ideals"  of  an  artistic  temperament,  by 
love. 

But  is  not  "artistic  temperament"  merely  another 
name  for  "talent"?  By  no  means.  For  talent  denotes 
specific  qualifications >  while  artistic  temperament 
means  a  predisposition  of  a  general  nature;  the 
former  points  at  physical — or,  perhaps,  mental — 
advantages,  while  the  latter  refers  to  a  psychic 
constitution;  the  former  specifies  attributes  of  the 
external  man,  attributes  easily  destructible  by 
accident,  such  as  may  cause  the  loss  of  a  hand,  of 
seeing  or  hearing; — the  latter  concerns  solely  the 
inner  man  and  influences  his  thoughts  and  views  of 
life  in  all  its  phases.  Indeed,  they  are  not  syn- 
onyms. 

To  analyze  the  artistic  temperament  would  be  a 
task  which  might  put  the  powers  of  the  pro- 
foundest  psychologist  to  a  severe  test;  for  much  as 
all  persons  of  artistic  temperament  may  have  in 
common,  yet,  at  closer  view,  they  display  such 
variety  of  hue,  of  inward  trend,  as  to  make  generali- 
zation well-nigh  impossible.  One  trait,  however, 
seems  to  be  predominant  in  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment, namely  its  intense  "humanness" — if  this  word 
receives  the  reader's  consent  to  denote  a  tendency 
I  101  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

towards  bringing  the  external  world  into  direct  re- 
lation with  the  soul-life  of  man.  It  is  a  bias  of  the 
soul  for  love  of  humanity,  either  producing,  or 
resulting  from,  a  high  degree  of  emotional  suscepti- 
bility. Thus  the  sculptor  who  is  modelling  an 
animal,  for  instance,  will  not  rest  satisfied  with  a 
mere  reproduction  of  its  features,  but  aims  at  an 
attitude  or  pose  which  expresses  a  feeling.  And  this 
feeling  must  be  one  which  the  human  heart  appre- 
ciates and  shares.  A  landscape  cannot  serve  as  a 
motive  to  a  painter  unless  he  arranges  its  component 
parts  in  such  relation  to  each  other,  and  with  such 
use  of  light  and  atmosphere,  that  a  human  emotion 
is  reflected  by  it. 

In  beholding  a  fine  sunset  the  artistic  temperament 
enjoys  not  merely  the  radiant  play  of  colors,  but  all 
that  the  human  mind  associates  with  it,  finding  it 
to  suggest  the  feeling  of  glory,  triumph,  serenity, 
melancholy,  happy  or  gloomy  presage,  or  any  of  the 
innumerable  sentiments  to  which  the  human  soul  is 
accessible.  While  keenly  appreciating  the  sensuous 
beauty  in  the  colors  of  a  fine  sunset,  artistic  tempera- 
ment goes  at  once  beyond  it  and  finds  in  it  the  touch 
with  the  human  element,  with  human  relations, 
human  soul-interests.  The  musician,  dispensing 
altogether  with  the  reproduction  of  visible  objects, 
aims  still  more  directly  at  the  relations  between  the 
external  world  and  our  inner,  emotional  life. 
With  the  fondness  of  a  parent,  with  the  lover's 
[  102  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

intuition  and  devotion,  with  the  warm  sympathy 
of  a  friend,  the  artistic  temperament  extends  its 
psychic  feelers  into  the  mystery  oif  the  human  soul. 
Unconsciously,  it  probes,  observes,  analyzes  every 
shade  and  degree  of  joy,  every  phase  of  suffering, 
of  agitation,  of  serenity — of  all,  in  short,  that  man 
can  perceive  with  his  psychic  organs.  To  grief  or 
joy,  when  mute  for  want  of  fitting  or  adequate 
utterance,  it  brings  relief  by  lending  force  and  beauty 
to  its  expression;  it  arouses  kindred  feelings  in  the 
hearts  of  others.  Through  painting,  statuary,  poem, 
symphony,  the  artistic  temperament  has  helped 
the  world  to  understand  better  the  lessons  of  its 
great  moral  teachers.  It  always  aims  to  strengthen 
the  best  impulses  in  man  and  to  awaken  them  where 
they  lie  dormant.  It  works  for  good.  It  says  the 
unsayable.  Thus  it  fosters  a  better  mutual  under- 
standing among  the  membership  of  human  society, 
and  therein  lies  its  practical  utility,  its  mission. 
An  account  of  the  functions  of  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment in  the  household  of  society  would  be  very 
sadly  incomplete  if  mention  were  not  made  of  the 
fact  that,  in  addition,  it  is  also  the  truest,  most 
accurate  and  most  reliable  recorder  of  what  is 
generally  named  "the  spirit  of  the  times."  Michael 
Angelo's  **Last  Judgment,**  for  instance,  is  not 
merely  a  great  work  of  art — perhaps  the  most  famous 
single  picture  in  the  world — but  it  reveals  in  its 
artistic  form  the  naive  and  horribly  material  idea 
[  103  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

which  in  the  artist's  day  was  entertained  of  the 
Final  Reckoning.  This  reflex  of  the  tendencies  and 
predominant  thoughts  of  the  times  is,  in  fact,  one 
of  the  meritorious  features  of  great  art-works,  and 
it  is  as  true  in  the  paintings  of  ancient  Egypt, 
recently  unearthed,  as  in  the  Eroica  Symphony  by 
Beethoven  or  in  Wagner's  '*Ring  of  the  Nibelung."* 
What  we  know  of  the  life,  customs  and  mental  views 
of  ancient  Greece  we  have  learned  from  its  archi- 
tecture, sculpture  and  poetry.  Archeology  has  de- 
termined the  time  periods,  but  their  spirit  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  art- works  they  have  left  us.  What 
significance  has  ancient  Troy  for  us  other  than  that 
which  Homer  gave  it? 

Yes,  the  artistic  temperament  is  a  keen,  though 
often  unconscious  observer,  but  in  order  to  become 
useful  it  must  be  coupled  with  an  extremely  delicate, 
sensitive  nervous  organization,  and  with  the  "un- 
usual natural  endowment"  of  a  strong  character. 
For  the  psychic  phase  of  "art"  cannot  find  expression 
through  the  artist  until  he  completely  masters  the 
"craft"  which  is  the  embodiment  of  his  branch  of 
art.  This  preparation,  as  said  before,  is  so  full  of 
drudgery,  so  unemotional,  so  distasteful  to  an 
imaginative  mind,  so  distressingly  mechanical, 
so  dry  and  so  wearying,  that  it  will  kill  the  artistic 
temperament,  roots  and  shoots,  in  any  heart  where 
it  is  not  imbedded  as  firmly  as  in  solid  rock. 

•See  Bernard  Shaw's  "Perfect  Wagnerite." 

[  104  1 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

It  is,  therefore,  preeminently  the  qualities  of 
character  that  make  the  artist  what  he  is,  ^tnd  not 
the  endowments  of  nature,  which  are  generally  im- 
plied by  the  word  "talent.'*  These  may  influence 
his  choice  of  material,  but  nothing  more. 
If,  for  instance,  he  feels  an  instinctive  inclination 
toward  music,  this  is  nothing  very  unusual;  or  can 
there  be  one  "with  soul  so  dead"  as  not  to  like 
music?  Many  love  it  well  enough  to  study  it  as  an 
accomplishment;  others,  loving  it  still  better,  select 
it  as  a  medium  of  expression  for  their  artistic 
temperament.  Of  these,  although  they  fill  the 
Schools  and  Academies  of  America  and  Europe 
by  thousands,  why  must  there  be  so  few  that  are 
"heard  from"  in  the  world  of  music?  They  have, 
all  of  them,  apt  hands,  correct  ears,  acute  tone- 
memory;  they  feel  the  artistic  temperament  with 
suflScient  force  to  choose  their  pursuit  in  life  accord- 
ing to  its  promptings.  Why  are  there,  nevertheless, 
so  few  who  really  become  artists?  Because  the  ma" 
jority  of  them  are  lacking  in  the  higher  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart.  Because  they  shrink  from  drudgery 
and  self-abnegation.  Because,  having  entrusted 
themselves  to  the  guidance  of  a  master-artist,  they 
do  not  obey  him.  Because  they  know  so  little  of  rever- 
ence for  superiority — and  here  recurs  the  thought 
expressed  on  the  opening  page — as  to  subject  the 
advice  of  lifelong  experience  to  their  immature 
criticism.  These,  without  exception,  are  the  causes 
[   105  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

of  all  failures  in  art.  From  whatever  side  the  question 
of  the  artist's  ability  and  merit  may  be  viewed,  the 
answer  always  points  at — chai^aeter. 
Highly  as  his  physical  aptitude,  the  "natural  endow- 
ments," may  be  esteemed  as  implements,  the 
artist's  significance  depends  upon  the  use  his  char- 
acter makes  of  them.  Again  and  again  it  is  the 
character  of  the  man  himself  that  makes  for  merit 
in  the  artist,  and  since  the  public  does  not  separate 
the  man  from  his  qualities  in  any  other  pursuit  of 
life,  why  does  it  so  persistently  do  so  in  regard  to 
the  artist?  Instead  of  ascribing  his  achievement  to 
physical,  purely  external  gifts  of  nature,  the  world 
should  form  a  higher,  nobler  conception  of  the  man 
in  the  artist  and  recognize  that  the  exceptional  en- 
dowments which  he  did  receive  from  nature  are  of 
a  far  more  dignified  order  and  quality.  The  artist 
is  neither  a  freak  or  caprice  of  nature,  nor  is  he  an 
exceptional  animal. 
He  is  an  exceptional  man. 


What  has  become  of  the  mystery  of  "talent**?  Is  it 
solved?  Surely  not.  Nor,  in  utter  forgetfulness  of 
the  impossibility  of  such  a  task,  has  this  discussion 
aimed  at  its  solution.  The  history  of  human  thought, 
however,  records  many  truths  that  have  been  dis- 
covered by  a  process  of  elimination.  False  beliefs 
and  false  theories  which  clouded  the  truth — though 
[  106] 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  TALENT 

at  times  they  were  very  popular — ^had  to  be  dis- 
proved one  by  one  before  the  truth  could  beam  upon 
the  world  in  unimpeded  light.  The  thoughts  here 
expressed  may,  upon  close  investigation,  not  prove 
unassailable;  they  may  be  found  to  be  neither  funda- 
mental nor  final,  but  they  should,  nevertheless,  call 
attention  to  the  circumstance  that  the  conception 
of  "talent"  which  is  now  current  and  popular  does 
no  longer  conform  to  the  reality  and  is  not  borne 
out  by  honest  observation  and  analysis  of  facts. 
Hence,  while  we  may  never  learn  what  is  the  mystery 
of  "talent,"  the  longing  for  the  truth  implanted  in 
the  human  heart  demands  that  we  should  try  to 
ascertain,  at  least,  what  it  is  not,  and  what  it  can 
not  be. 


[107 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 


Apology 

Biography  forms  of  literature  a  large  branch  which 
the  world  has  accepted  as  legitimate.  Hence,  a  mere 
questioning  of  the  propriety  of  writing  a  dead  man's 
biography  (including  his  private  correspondence) 
and  a  disputing  of  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
reading  it  will,  at  first  sight,  appear  like  very  little 
short  of  vandalism.  I  trust,  however,  that  this  first 
horrifying  impression  will  be  somewhat  modified 
by  the  consideration  that  I  purpose  to  refer  ex- 
clusively to  the  biographies  of  artists.  In  return  for 
this  self-limitation  I  ask  no  more  than  that  my 
argument  should  be  heard  before  it  is  condemned. 
It  is  on  Seneca's  wise  admonition,  **audiatur  et  altera 
pars,**  that  I  base  my  invitation  of  the  reader's 
openminded   attention. 

The  views  I  am  about  to  reveal  did  not  present 
themselves  to  my  mind  in  the  broad  thoroughfares 
of  the  realm  of  art,  travelled  over  by  the  trifling 
amateur;  neither  did  I  happen  upon  them  on  a 
conventional  moral  lookout  or  belvedere  recom- 
mended by  any  of  the  numberless  esthetical  guide- 
books. I  came  to  them  by  rather  slow  approaches 
and  not  until  I  had  served  many  years  as  a  guide 

I  111  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

to  young  people  who  ventured  upon  the  steep  and 
stony  road  to  musical  art.  In  this  service  I  have 
often  observed  the  lamentable  effects  which  the 
reading  of  biographies  has  upon  young  students. 
It  is,  however,  not  only  from  this  point  that  I  have 
viewed  the  subject.  Its  aspects  are  numerous  and 
some  of  them  are  rather  serious;  though  the  one  on 
which  I  incline  to  lay  the  greatest  stress  will,  I  fear, 
be  the  one  that  is  most  difficult  to  point  out 
and  more  difficult,  perhaps,  in  modern  America 
than  elsewhere.  I  can,  therefore,  not  offer  the 
following  views  to  the  reader  with  any  hope  for  his 
approval  unless  he  arm  himself  with  a  little  patience 
and  with  a  willingness  to  follow  me  to  those  points 
of  vantage  where  he  can  behold  the  subject  in  the 
light  in  which  I  saw  it.  The  way  to  these  points  is  a 
trifle  long  and  the  road,  far  from  being  smooth,  leads 
past  many  obstructing  rocks  of  prejudice;  sharp- 
edged,  inert,  unyielding  boulders,  no  doubt.  But  if 
fairly  surefooted,  the  reader  will  find  it  easy  enough 
to  follow  my  lead  and  I  dare  to  hope  that  at  some 
of  these  points,  at  least,  he  will  admit  the  fairness 
of  the  views  presented.  It  may  be  well  to  say  in 
conclusion  that  the  word  "artist"  shall  here  not 
apply  exclusively  to  painters  and  sculptors — as  is 
the  indefensible  custom  among  the  English-speaking 
[112  1 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

nations — ^but  comprise  the  workers  in  all  branches 
of  Art,  which  means  the  expression  of  purely  psychic 
processes. 


Odi  prqfanum  vulgus  et  arceo, 
Horace. 

Crede  mihi,  bene  qui  latuit  bene  vixit, 
Ovid,  Tristia. 

When  we  take  a  general  survey  of  the  delights  life 
has  to  offer,  such  as  the  enjoyment  of  fame,  the 
glory  of  success,  the  raptures  of  love,  the  pleasure 
of  travel,  the  luxuries  of  the  table,  the  varied 
privileges  of  wealth  and  even  the  gratification  of 
our  sensibilities — we  find  that  the  happiness  they 
give  us  depends  not  a  little  upon  our  age,  our  health, 
our  freedom  from  care,  and  other  circumstances. 
There  is,  however,  one  source  of  happiness  which 
is  unconditional.  No  change  of  years  or  circum- 
stance can  ever  deprive  it  entirely  of  its  delight. 
Its  depth,  dignity  and  sweetness  surpasses  beyond 
all  comparing  the  enjoyments  of  fame,  power, 
luxury  or  wealth.  It  is  the  consciousness  that,  some- 
where, there  is  a  spot,  a  nook,  a  niche  whither  no 
idly  curious  eye  dare  follow  us;  where  no  cynic 
mouth  may  sneer  at  us  when,  under  the  sway  of 
some  great  emotion — of  joy  or  grief — we  may  give 
ourselves  up  to  our  feelings;  where,  bit  by  bit,  we 
may  degustate  our  joy,  hug  it,  ay,  gloat  over  it; 
I  113  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

where  we  may  sing,  dance  or — if  grief  holds  sway 
over  us — weep  and  mourn  without  in  either  case 
making  a  spectacle  of  ourselves.  This  nook  or  niche, 
consecrated  to  ourselves  and  our  inner  life,  may  be  a 
palace,  a  hotel  room  or  log-cabin,  for  it  is  not  the 
locality  but  our  mental  attitude  that  makes  of 
the  locality,  whichever  it  be,  a  sanctum  sanctorum 
of  our  soul.  This  niche  is  Privacy!  Ah,  privacy, 
sweet  privacy!  To  retire  to  or  emerge  from  it,  at 
our  own  sweet  will  and  pleasure;  to  be  in  and  with 
the  world  when  we  wish  it  and  to  be  away  from  it 
when  it  wearies  us — what  a  boon  to  thinking,  self- 
respecting  people!  The  learned  judge,  Sir  Edward 
Coke,  said,  **The  house  of  every  one  is  to  him  as  his 
castle  and  fortress,  as  well  for  his  defense  against 
injury  and  violence  as  for  his  repose."  The  British 
nation  has,  in  abbreviated  form,  adopted  his  dictum 
as  a  motto,  and  while  the  abbreviation  seems  to 
overemphasibje  the  element  of  security,  it  was 
probably  not  intended  to  imply  the  frequency  of 
danger  but  rather  the  repose  of  mind  and  body  that 
is  begotten  or,  at  any  rate,  much  favored  by  privacy. 
Yes,  there  is  repose  in  privacy.  There  is  peace. 
There  are  its  cosy  comforts  that  invite,  ay,  tempt  us 
to  commune  with  ourselves,  to  receive  our  thoughts 
in  solemn  audience,  to  conjure  up  old  memories, 
to  exchange  thoughts  and  views  with  our  dear 
ones;  to  remember  with  them  the  sorrows  and  joys 
of  the  past,  discuss  the  present  and  plan  the  future. 
[114] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

There  are  the  thousand  things  big  and  little  standing 
and  lying  about  that  reflect  our  tastes  and  the 
changes  of  our  tendencies  through  the  various  stages 
of  our  life  and  impart  to  our  home  the  stamp  of 
our  identity  so  markedly  as  to  differentiate  it  from 
all  other  households,  even  from  those  where  monetary 
and  other  circumstances  are  similar  to  our  own. 
These  manifold  charms  of  privacy,  though  quite  of 
our  own  creation,  have  a  reflex  action  upon  us  which 
ceases  the  moment  we  leave  them,  be  it  for  months, 
days  and  even  for  a  few  hours.  For  while  we  are 
away,  on  business,  on  the  street  or  on  pleasure 
bound,  we  have  to  consider  either  material  interests 
or  special  policies  and  conventions  which  induce 
many  of  us  to  assume  a  bearing,  perhaps  not  arti- 
ficial enough  to  be  called  a  mask,  and  yet  not  quite 
natural  enough  to  be  entirely  true  to  our  real  ego. 
There  is  many  a  courteous  smile — or  its  suppression 
— dictated  by  social  policy;  there  is  for  kindred 
reasons  many  a  salute  given  or  denied,  accepted  or 
evaded,  though  it  may  be  quite  contrary  to  our 
feelings;  there  is  often  an  air  of  prosperity  assumed 
to  hide  our  reverses  in  business  so  as  to  preserve  our 
credit — but  why  illustrate  ?  The  social  lie  in  modern 
life  is  an  established  and  recognized  factor  which 
requires  neither  proof  nor  illustration  and  which 
is  perhaps  as  necessary  at  times  as  the  pious  fibs 
about  the  stork  and  about  Santa  Claus. 
But  oh,  when  we  return  to  our  home  and  its  sweet 
f  115  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

privacy,  how  quickly  we  change  back  again  to  our 
real  selves !  The  heart,  that  was  forbidden  to  speak 
while  so  momentous  a  matter  as  "business"  was  on 
our  mind,  here  it  unlocks  the  gates  of  love  to  let  in 
all  its  warmth  and  light.  The  mind,  so  long  on 
caution  bent,  on  material  advantages  and  profit, 
occupied  perhaps  by  professional  worries,  invest- 
ments and  what  not — here  it  is  at  ease;  all  caution 
is  thrown  to  the  winds,  and  faith  and  trust  take  its 
place.  We  speak  again  to  ourselves  or  to  those  we 
hold  dearest,  and  our  confidence  is  unbounded  by 
fear  or  worldly  wisdom;  for  here,  in  the  privacy  of 
our  home,  we  feel  with  Goethe:  "Here  I  am  Man, 
here  dare  I  Man  to  be.*' 

And  so  dear  do  we  hold  the  delights  of  privacy  that 
we  reserve  the  participation  in  them  exclusively 
for  our  dearest  and  most  trusted  friends.  Indeed, 
the  admission  into  our  private  life  is  granted  to  them 
as  a  distinction  merited  by  a  long  and  loyal  friend- 
ship developed  from  mere  acquaintance  by  slow 
stages,  by  kindly  acts  and  other  signs  of  mutually 
affectionate  regard.  There  is  no  stronger  mark  of 
esteem  and  friendship  in  our  giving  than  to  treat 
the  erstwhile  stranger  like  a  member  of  our  family 
and  admit  him  to  the  sanctum  of  our  privacy. 
Though  upon  occasion  we  may  open  our  house  and 
offer  our  hospitality  to  a  wider  circle,  including  even 
les  amis  de  mes  amis;  though  we  may  expose  to  their 
view  our  costliest  books,  our  finest  art  treasures, 
(  116  1 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

« 

and  offer  them  the  best  products  of  our  kitchen  and 
the  choicest  contents  of  our  wine-cellar;  though  we 
may  do  all  this  and  more  on  such  occasions  to  cheer 
our  guests — ^yet  there  is  something  which  we  with- 
hold from  them;  something  we  have  removed  with 
our  weekday  clothes  as  we  donned  the  more  festive 
attire  in  honor  of  our  guests;  something  we  con- 
cealed from  them  as  too  sacred  for  the  eye  of  the 
uninitiated.  To  our  house  and  all  its  hospitality 
the  guests  were  welcome,  but  not  to  its  privacy, 
not  to  its  intimacy,  its  cachet,  its  sweetest  charm  to 
ourselves.  For,  this  privacy  is  our  own!  Our 
ownest  own!  It  is  the  sanctum  of  our  soul  where 
what  is  best  in  us  asserts  itself;  where  our  faults 
are  weighed  with  lenity  against  our  virtues  and 
where  our  errors  find  forgiveness  by  forbearing 
love.  This  earthly  paradise,  as  said  before,  consists 
neither  of  brick  and  mortar  nor  of  architecture  and 
decoration;  it  is  created  and  maintained  solely  by 
the  spirit  of  dignity  and  self-respect  that  animates 
its  occupants;  that  spirit  which,  by  means  invisible 
but  powerful,  holds  hoi  polloit  the  vulgarly  and 
frivolously  curious,  at  a  distance  and  keeps  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  our  lives  discreetly  within  the 
heart-united  circle  of  the  family  and  its  most 
trusted  friends. 

Upon  this  spirit  of  privacy  reposes  an  institution 

of  no  mean  importance  in  the  life  of  a  nation :  it  is 

called  "good  Society,"  sometimes  "polite  Society," 

[  117  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

because  its  constituents  represent  in  their  community 
the  highest  culture  and  refinement.  According  to 
Tarde's  definition  a  community  is  "an  aggregation 
of  persons  who  are  individually  distinct  and  yet 
imitate  one  another."  Unless  we  reject  this  defi- 
nition entirely,  which  our  sense  of  humor  would 
not  permit,  we  cannot  fail  to  realize  how  beneficent 
the  influence  of  good  society  must  be  upon  the 
community  at  large;  the  more  so  as  this  influence  is 
exercised  unconsciously  and  hence  without  selfish 
interest,  deriving  its  force,  quite  independent  of 
wealth,  solely  from  those  internal  qualities  which 
are  commonly  understood  by  the  term  "good 
breeding." 

It  is  to  be  very  seriously  regretted  that  this  fine 
influence  has  been  weakened  of  late  by  the  advent 
of  quite  a  different  type  of  society,  the  rise  of  which 
is  probably  due  to  certain  faulty  economic  con- 
ditions. This  type,  monopolizing  the  attention  of 
the  masses  solely  by  the  power  of  wealth  and  its 
ostentatious  flaunting,  can  for  this  very  reason  lay 
no  claim  upon  being  called  "polite"  unless  this 
word  were  meant  to  cover  no  more  than  the  most 
rudimentary  comities  of  social  intercourse  and  not 
as  an  indication  of  culture  of  mind  and  heart  with 
its  resultant  refinement  of  manners  and  develop- 
ment of  tact. 

(The  reader  may  have  asked  long  ago  what  all  this 

has  to  do  with  the  biography  of  artists,  and  I  feel 

I  118  ] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

guilty  of  having  kept  him  somewhat  in  suspense, 
but  I  am  compelled  to  ask  his  indulgence  for  a  few 
moments  more;  for  I  wish  to  lead  him  to  that  point 
of  vantage  where  I  obtained  the  view  which  I 
invited  him  to  share  with  me.) 
That  the  constituency  of  this  newer  type  of  society 
recognizes  the  superiority  of  the  older  one  is  plainly 
enough  demonstrated  by  their  amusing  efforts  to 
elbow  their  way  into  it.  And  yet,  this  is  perhaps 
their  one  redeeming  feature.  For  in  itself  the  striv- 
ing for  social  elevation  is  not  only  legitimate  but 
even  praiseworthy;  provided,  however,  that  it  be 
supported  by  fitness  and  prom*pted  by  the  natural 
desire  for  such  associations  as  will  promise  both 
mutual  understanding  of,  and  common  interest  in, 
the  graces  of  life.  When,  however,  the  motives  of 
this  striving  are  not  of  such  a  nature;  when  the 
admission  into  good  society  is  sought  for  no  better 
purpose  than  to  impress  the  public  at  large  with 
one's  social  advancement — purely  for  its  extrinsic 
value,  as  it  were — then  the  striving  becomes  in  the 
highest  degree  reprehensible  because  of  its  utter 
vulgarity.  Sad  to  say,  there  are  people  who  are 
not  satisfied  with  their  admission  into  a  socially 
distinguished  circle  unless  their  presence  there  is 
advertised  in  such  public  prints  as  will  carry  the 
information  down  to  the  remotest  strata  of  society 
— perhaps  particularly  to  these.  "Corrupted  free- 
men are  the  worst  of  slaves."  This  sad  fondness  for 
[  119  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

publicity,  so  shrilly  contrasting  with  the  dignity 
of  privacy,  is  the  more  deplorable  as  it  is  not  con- 
fined to  men;  women  have  their  full  share,  if, 
indeed,  not  the  lion*s  share  of  it. 
Some  good  woman,  for  instance,  gives  a  luncheon 
which  is  honored  by  the  presence  of  socially  or 
otherwise  distinguished  persons.  She  feels  gratified 
at  being  surrounded  by  such  a  desirable  company; 
so  does  her  matrimonial  appendage.  Perfectly 
natural.  But  why,  pray,  should  every  shop  or 
factory  girl,  as  she  reads  her  paper  in  the  street  car 
on  the  way  to  her  work,  have  this  very  private  affair 
rubbed  into  her  mind?  Does  it  interest  her?  The 
trouble  is,  that  it  does — and  so  much  so  as  to  induce 
in  her  mind  comparisons  with  the  scarcity  and 
scantness  of  her  own  pleasures;  it  arouses  her 
covetousness  and  her  discontent.  Is  this  the  purpose 
of  the  publication?  Let  us  hope  not. 
In  a  city  of  a  hundred  thousand  inhabitants  there 
are  probably  not  more  than  a  dozen  people  interested 
in  the  fact  that  Miss  Gwendolyn  X.  Y.  (whoever 
she  might  be)  has  returned  from  Podunk  after  a 
"successful  visit"  (whatever  that  means);  why 
should  this  utterly  irrelevant  fact  be  forced  upon 
the  consciousness  of  a  hundred  thousand  minds? 
And  if  a  worthy  guest  of  note  spends  a  few  days  in 
her  house,  cannot  Mrs.  Y.  de  Z.  be  happy  without 
telling  every  woman  in  town  through  the  papers, 
"Oh,  we  are  quite  intimate,  we  are — so  I  entertained 
[  120  ] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

him,  I  did,  and  you — didn't,  you  didn't,  you  didn't! 
See?" 

The  motive  for  the  publication  may  not  always, 
perhaps  not  often,  possibly  never,  be  such  an  unkind 
one.  It  may  be  done  in  pure  thoughtlessness,  but 
even  then  it  shows  an  utter  lack  of  appreciation  of 
the  loveliest  privilege  which  a  monetary  competency 
can  afford :  the  privilege  of  privacy.  This  tendency 
of  turning  one's  private  residence  into  a  show- 
window  is  not  only  deplorable  because  of  its  want 
of  dignity,  but  it  makes  one  wonder  at  the  mental 
constitution  of  persons  who,  with  the  means  of 
obtaining  and  preserving  it  ready  in  hand,  de- 
liberately forgo  the  chiefest  distinction  of  true 
gentility. 

It  is  easy  to  foretell  that  persons  so  constituted  will 
never  be  brought  into  the  embarrassing  position  of 
facing  these  lines  and  it  is,  therefore,  hardly  neces- 
sary to  say — if  by  accident  they  should  read  them 
— that  they  could  not  possibly  understand  an 
argument  which  is  based  upon  the  love  of  privacy, 
of  its  gentility  and  its  delightful  charm,  when  they 
fail  to  appreciate  its  fundamental  dignity.  Self- 
respecting  people,  however,  who  do  love  their 
privacy  and  appreciate  its  delights  and  charms, 
will  readily  admit  that  we  are,  by  justice  and  logic, 
bound  to  respect  the  privacy  of  others  in  the  same 
measure  as  we  wish  them  to  respect  our  own.  And 
if  the  privacy  of  our  neighbor  is  sacred  to  us  while 
[  121  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

he  lives — ^how  much  more  so  must  it  be  when  he  is 
dead.  (De  mortuis  nil — the  rest  of  the  quotation  is 
quite  unnecessary.)  If  he  gave  a  part  of  his  fortune 
to  foster  some  scientific  research;  to  help  a  much 
needed  charity;  if  he  wrote  a  good  book,  symphony 
or  opera;  if  he  painted  a  great  picture  or  has  in  any 
other  manner  contributed  to  the  progress  of  hu- 
manity, let  him  be  praised  for  it;  let  his  name  be 
honored;  let  his  gift  be  gratefully  remembered;  let 
him — if  it  must  be  and  while  there  is  room  for  it — 
have  a  statue  in  a  public  place;  but  do,  in  the  name 
of  decency,  respect  his  private  life!  Let  not  his 
foibles,  his  human  frailties  be  ruthlessly  dragged 
from  the  sanctum  of  his  home  into  the  open  market- 
place by  way  of  a  "biography'*!  For  if  his  private 
life  is  laid  bare  to  the  public  gaze  for  no  higher 
purpose  than  to  show  that,  after  all,  he  had  his 
failings  as  well  as  most  of  us  have,  then  the  book 
serves  an  ignoble  purpose;  and  if  the  biographer 
depict  him  as  being  quite  free  from  faults,  the  book 
would  most  probably  be  untrue.  It  would  soon  be 
discredited  and  thus  lose  even  its  alleged  value  as  a 
model  for  emulation.  In  either  case  the  question 
remains :     Cui  bono  f 

May  a  man  not  benefit  or  excel  his  fellowmen  with- 
out being  subjected  to  posthumous  espionage? 
The  respect  for  a  man's  private  life  is,  however, 
by  no  means  an  exclusive  reason  for  discouraging 
the  reading  (and  writing)  of  artists'  biographies;; 
f  122  1 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

another,  equally  potent,  reason  lies  in  the  circum- 
stance that  human  nature — especially  when  finely 
organized  and  highly  sensitive,  as  it  must  be  with 
great  artists — is  subject  to  a  peculiar  and  inex- 
plicable division  within  itself;  a  division  which  the 
psychologist  calls  dualism  of  the  soul.  In  plain  words, 
there  is  in  every  man  a  higher  and  a  lower  nature. 
One  who  worships  his  Creator  in  the  church  with 
an  honest  heart  and  sincere  feeling  is,  surely,  in  a 
frame  of  mind  very  different  from  that  in  which 
he  attends  to  his  worldly  affairs  during  the  week. 
This  must  not  be  taken  as  a  veiled  hint  at  those  who 
"worship  God  on  Sunday  and  skin  their  neighbor 
on  other  days."  By  no  means!  It  refers  to  the 
average  man.  Nevertheless,  if  the  high  ideal  of 
righteousness,  which  the  Divine  Service  awakened 
or  reawakened  in  his  soul,  should  lose  none  of  its 
lustre  by  the  conflict  of  interests  which  he  is  apt  to 
encounter  in  his  daily  pursuits,  he  would,  indeed, 
be  an  exceptional  man.  He  would  be  the  exception 
that  proves  the  existence  of  a  rule,  and  as  a  rule 
Man*s  soul  is  aflflicted  with  dualism;  afflicted — or 
blessed.  And  this  is  particularly  the  case  with  artists. 
Now,  it  so  happens  that  the  artist,  while  at  his  work, 
is  in  a  frame  of  mind  not  altogether  dissimilar  from 
that  of  the  man  in  church;  for  while  the  artist  is  at 
work  the  acting  forces  in  him,  too,  belong  to  his 
higher  nature.  He,  too,  perceives  an  ideal.  He,  too, 
strives  to  embody  it  in  his  daily  work.  He,  too,  is  by 
[  123  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

this  very  ideal  transported  from  the  workaday  world 
into  a  higher,  nobler,  loftier  realm;  into  a  plane  of 
thought  and  feeling  where  he  may  paint  or  chisel 
the  human  body  in  the  nude  without  the  remotest 
thought  of  nakedness;  where  he  may  group  words 
and  sentences  into  expressions  of  enduring  beauty 
and  forceful  truth;  where  he  may  give  tonal  utter- 
ance to  the  emotions  of  man,  from  the  softest  ripple 
to  the  most  tempestuous  waves.  Alas,  it  is  not  when 
the  artist  is  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  the  biographer 
deals  with  him.  The  esthetic  writer  of  an  "appreci- 
ation" and  the  critic,  they  usually  confine  themselves 
to  a  discussion  of  the  artistes  work;  but  the  biog- 
rapher deals  with  the  man  in  the  artist,  he  spies 
him  out  when  he  is  en  negligCy  when  he  has  to  face 
the  mechanical,  technical,  personal  side  of  life,  when 
he  moves  on  the  plane  of  his  lower  nature,  when  he 
is  a  plain  citizen  "even  as  you  and  I." 
But  the  contrast  between  his  ideal  occupation  and 
the  sterner  realities  of  life  may  vex  the  artist  at 
times  and,  given  a  choleric  temperament  (which  is 
not  infrequent  with  artists),  his  vexations  may  cause 
a  hasty,  unkind  word.  He  may  be  afflicted  with  some 
abnormal  craving,  like  Schiller,  for  example,  who 
had  a  passion  for  the  odor  of  rotten  apples;  and  if 
the  pendulum  of  his  vital  energy  was  swinging  high 
to  the  ideal  side  while  he  was  at  his  wcTrk,  it  may 
afterwards  swing  just  as  high  to  the  material  side 
and  tempt  him  to  gratify  his  craving.  He  is  by  no 
f  124  1 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

means  exempt  from  the  possibilities  of  being  un- 
happily married  or  of  any  other  domestic  troubles, 
and  these,  taxing  his  patience  perhaps  beyond 
his  power  of  endurance,  may  induce  words  and  acts 
which  are  "not  for  publication"  and  which  his  family, 
acquainted  with  their  cause,  readily  forgive  for  the 
sake  of  his  virtues.  What,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  has  the  world  at  large  to  do  with  all  this?  Is 
the  raking  up  of  such  eminently  private  matters 
anything  but  a  purely  mercenary  pandering  to  the 
most  plebeian  curiosity?  Is  it  anything  better  than 
what  constitutes  the  occupation  of  the  "village 
gossip"?  Entering  a  store  to  make  a  purchase  we 
do  not  enquire  into  the  private  affairs  of  either  the 
owner  or  the  salesman;  why  should  we  not  show,  at 
least,  an  equally  respectful  desistence  to  a  mail  who, 
instead  of  trading  in  the  work  of  others,  sold  us  what 
only  his  innermost  and  best  self  could  produce? 
Certain  esthetic  wiseacres  opine  that  a  familiarity 
with  the  author's  or  composer's  life  has  an  influence 
upon  the  interpreting  artist's  conception  of  their 
works;  but  this  is  pure  mental  vagary.  How  could, 
and  why  should,  a  knowledge  of  the  words  and  acts 
of  his  lower  nature  be  favorable  to  the  conception 
of  those  utterances  which  emanated  from  a  man's 
higher  nature?  Absurd!  An  actor  to  whom  the  part 
of  Richard  III  was  entrusted  will  probably  look  into 
history  and  read  all  he  can  find  about  Richard,  but 
not  about  Shakespeare;  because  in  the  task  before 
f  125  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

him  the  man  Shakespeare  is  of  no  particular  interest. 
Whether  the  artist  expresses  himself  in  tones,  colors, 
lines,  or  words,  written  or  voiced,  his  work  is  from 
his  private  life  a  thing  apart.  His  work  may  be  in- 
fluenced by  the  current  ideas  and  events  of  his 
time,  but  this  would  be  reflected  in  his  work.  If 
this  reflex  cannot  be  traced  in  his  work  without 
raking  up  his  private  life,  it  cannot  be  essential  for 
an  intelligent  rendition  of  his  work.  Had  the  author 
or  composer  been  conscious  of  such  an  influence,  he 
could  not  have  created  a  masterpiece;  and  if  he  was 
not  conscious  of  this  influence,  «,we  certainly  have 
no  right  to  ghoulishly  disinter  the  key  to  the  soul- 
mysteries  which  he  took  unsolved  with  him  into 
the  grave.  These  delicate  processes  by  which  certain 
extraneous  impulses  unconsciously  transform  them- 
selves in  a  composer's  mind  into  artistic  concepts — 
we  have  no  right  to  retrace  their  course  to  the 
starting-point  in  detective  fashion  for  the  irreverent 
and  puerile  amusement  of  seeing  cause  and  effect 
in  juxtaposition.  It  is  an  unholy  procedure  which 
neither  esthetics  nor  ethics  can  justify;  it  smacks 
of  frivolous  soul-dissection.  What  matters  it  to  us 
whether  Beethoven  thought  in  his  **Eroica"  of 
Napoleon,  Hannibal,  Caesar  or  Tamerlane.'^  What 
matters  it  to  whom  he  originally  dedicated  it?  Nay, 
more;  is  the  very  title  a  matter  of  necessity?  Does 
not  the  Symphony  tell  its  own  musical  story? 
Would  anybody  take  it  for  a  pastoral  or  carnevalistic 
[  126  ] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

tone  essay?  Or,  perhaps,  for  a  "Sinfonia  domestica"? 
It  is  sometimes  said  to  be  of  importance  to  know  of 
certain  works  at  which  stage  of  the  composer's  life 
they  were  created.  Granting  the  importance — 
though  only  for  the  moment — it  would  not  speak 
for  biography  but  rather  for  mere  chronology.  This 
is  supplied  in  music  by  opus-numbers,  in  books  by 
the  year  of  publication,  and  while  this  may  not  be  an 
absolutely  reliable  guide  it  will  prove  to  be  so  in  the 
majority  of  cases.  Besides,  it  is  not  necessary, 
because  the  stage  of  a  master's  mental  and  psychical 
maturing  is,  like  all  other  essentials,  easily  enough 
inferred  by  comparing  his  works  with  one  another. 
He  would  be  a  sorry  kind  of  musician  who  could  read 
his  way  through  Beethoven's  Sonatas  or  Symphonies 
without  noticing  how  strongly  the  first  ones  are 
influenced  by  Mozart,  how  steadily  the  emancipation 
from  his  model  progresses,  and  how,  finally,  their 
forms  grow  larger  and  larger,  expanding  with  that 
conscious  and  intelligently  used  freedom  of  genius 
"who  makes  and  keeps  his  self  made  laws."  The 
musician  who  cannot  realize  these  changes  by  a  study 
of  the  master's  work  will  surely  gain  nothing  in  this 
respect  by  reading  an  account  of  his  private  life. 
Such  a  musician  had  better  change  his  profession 
and  make  room  for  a  more  intelligent  confrere. 
The  conception  of  a  work  of  art,  creatively  or  for 
purposes  of  interpretation — punctiliously  exact  writ- 
ing or  deciphering  being,  of  course,  presupposed — is 
[  127  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

largely  a  matter  of  feeling.  It  may  be  well  to  re- 
member that  "no  intellectual  symbol,  such  as  a 
descriptive  book  would  furnish,  can  ever  completely 
fill  the  full  measure  of  a  feeling."*  Whether  too 
light,  too  volatile  or  too  powerful,  the  lineaments  of 
feelings  are  always  finer  than  the  finest  network 
of  worded  or  "wordable"  ideas.  This  is  the  reason 
why  reflection  has  an  irresistible  tendency  to  destroy 
"the  native  hue  of  resolution"  and  to  supplant  it 
with  something  like  a  levelling  stoicism.  In  this 
tendency  lurks  a  serious  danger  to  reproductive  art 
and  artists;  a  danger  arising,  not  from  the  difference 
between  art  and  philosophic  reflection,  but  from  the 
elements  they  possess  in  common.  The  work  of  the 
creative  artist  as  of  the  philosopher  starts  from  a 
primary  feeling  and  ends  with  self -liberation  from 
this  feeling  by  certain  procedures;  but  in  these 
procedures,  that  is,  really,  in  all  that  lies  between 
the  primary  feeling  and  the  finished  result,  the 
philosopher  differs  very  widely  from  the  artist. 
Philosophy  subjects  the  primary  feeling  to  the 
scrutiny  of  reflection^  pursues  it  intellectually  to  its 
last  consequences;  while  art  strives  for  a  sensuous 
objectivation  of  the  primary  feeling  and  exhausts  its 
subject  through  the  vocabulary  of  sensuous  per- 
ceptions. There  is,  of  course,  no  absolute  separation 
between  the  sensuous  and  the  intellectual;  still, 


•E.  Spranger,  "Beethoven." 

f  128 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 


they  are  wide  enough  apart  to  make  the  philosopher 
extremely  cautious  against  the  inadvertent  in- 
trusion of  anything  emotional  in  his  intellectual 
lucubrations.  Conversely,  the  artist  bewares  of 
purely  intellectual  inductions  and  deductions.  He 
carefully  guards  against  the  influence  of  anything 
and  everything  that  lies  not  in  the  work,  itself,  which 
is  under  contemplation.  This  ban  should  be  sweep- 
ing and  include,  first  of  all,  the  reading  of  biogra- 
phies; for  the  intrusion  of  the  composer*s  personality 
into  a  study  of  the  creations  of  his  imagination  must 
of  necessity  bias  the  interpreter's  conception.  If 
Buffon's  dictum,  **Le  styhy  cest  Vhommey'  is  true, 
then  the  style  is  all  that  connects  us  with  the  man  in 
an  artist.  Not  his  shape,  his  face,  his  love-affairs, 
his  debts,  his  personal  disposition — only  his  style, 
for  in  it  will  be  revealed  the  sum  total  of  his  ex- 
perience, his  grasp  upon  life,  his  higher  nature. 
With  his  private  affairs  we  have  no  concern  what- 
ever, whether  the  artist  be  dead  or  alive. 
There  is  no  dramatist  whose  plays  have  retained 
their  freshness  and  vitality  as  long  as  those  of 
Shakespeare — and  how  very  little  is  known  of  his 
private  life!  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  precious 
little  in  the  private  life  of  the  much  less  important 
Dr.  Johnson  that  Boswell  has  withheld  from  our 
knowledge,  and  yet — honestly — would  it  have  been 
an  unbridgeable  gap  in  the  history  of  literature  if 
Dr.  Johnson's  life  had  not  been  written?  With  all 
[  129  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

due  justice  to  Boswell's  style  and  exactness  of 
observation  one  cannot  help  feeling  that  99  per  cent, 
of  the  contents  of  his  volume  are  nothing  but  pure, 
unmitigated  gossip,  which  helps  no  one  to  a  better 
understanding  of  anything  worthy  of  appreciation. 
It  has  been  said  that  the  personal  association  with 
a  man  of  genius  is  a  great  privilege,  and  since  in  his 
life  this  privilege  can  be  granted  to  but  a  few,  the 
biography — appearing  as  it  does  after  death — 
extends  this  privilege  to  the  many;  that  the  reading 
of  his  biography  brings  him  nearer  to  us.  But — why 
should  it?  Is  the  man  of  genius  identical  with  the 
creations  of  his  fancy  .^^  Does  it  increase  our  interest 
in  Thackeray's  writings  when  we  learn  that  the 
satirist  of  "Snobs"  was,  himself,  a  good  deal  of  a 
snob.f^  Some  people  are  not  satisfied  with  the 
pleasure  of  reading  a  novel  unless  they  find  out  who 
was  the  model  for  this  or  that  of  its  characters,  who 
is  satirized  in  it,  who  inspired  it,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And 
when  they  have  found  it  out — or  think  they  have — 
what  of  it.f^  Idle,  post  mortem  gossip! 
A  favorite  defence  of  biography  reading  is  that  it  is 
read  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  subject  as 
because  it  brings  us  into  touch  with  the  "spirit  of 
the  times";  but  even  this  is  only  a  subterfuge.  For 
to  understand  the  spirit  of  a  past  age  requires  great 
scholarship  and  an  erudition  so  wide  as  is  not  attain- 
able to  everybody.  Moreover,  this  understanding 
is  gained  far  better  from  the  study  of  history,  from 
f  130  1 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

the  actions  of  the  composite  race-mind,  than  from  a 
biography  which,  after  all,  shows  only  the  relation 
of  one  individual  to  the  spirit  of  his  time.  Besides, 
the  less  an  artist's  work  has  to  do  with  the  spirit  of 
his  time,  the  longer  it  is  apt  to  live,  for  great  minds 
live  in  the  future. 

The  line  which  the  devourers  of  biographies  quote 
most  frequently  to  screen  their  passion  for  gossip, 
is  the  second  one  of  the  second  epistle  in  Pope's 
"Essay  on  Man": 

The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 

The  line  which  precedes  this,  however,  they  care- 
fully desist  from  quoting — why.'^  Because  it  would 
destroy  the  defensive  value  of  the  second  line,  for  it 
shows  plainly  that  by  "man"  Pope  meant  "thyself" 
as  an  antithesis  to  "God." 
It  reads: 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan; 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man! 

Would  that  the  biography  gluttons  knew  themselves 
a  little  better  and  let  the  dead  artists  rest  in  their 
graves ! 

What  the  master  in  art  gives  to  the  world  is  his  work  I 
It  stands  on  its  merits  or  falls  by  its  defects.  The 
world  may  accept  his  work  or  reject  it — but  there 
its  rights  end !  If  he  breaks  the  laws  of  the  land,  the 
f  131  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

courts  of  justice  will  deal  with  him — but  judge  his 
work  by  its  merits,  not  by  the  author's  social  virtues 
or  failings.  Should  it  be  his  work  that  offends  public 
opinion  he  must,  of  course,  be  held  responsible  and 
bear  the  penalty.  If  it  arouses  enthusiasm,  give  him 
the  praise.  He  will  be  grateful,  even  if  this  praise 
assume  the  form  of  a  public  ovation;  but  when  the 
ceremony  is  over,  please  allow  him  to  retire  again 
into  the  privacy  of  his  home  circle;  and  respect  this 
privacy  also  after  his  death. 

A  word  may  be  said  here  about  the  artist's  occasional 
**sins  against  conventions."  To  demand  of  an  artist 
that  he  should  lead  a  conventional  private  life  is  an 
injustice  so  monstrous  as  to  border  on  the  non- 
sensical. We  demand  that  his  work  should  disclose 
to  us  vistas  of  life  that  are  deeper  and  wider  than 
our  own;  that,  directly  or  indirectly,  it  should  stim- 
ulate our  intellect,  imagination,  emotion  and 
ethical  feeling;  that,  for  the  time  being,  his  work 
should  take  us  out  of  the  wearying  sameness  of  our 
daily  grind  and  teach  us  to  contemplate  life  and 
ourselves  from  a  higher  plane — this  is  our  demand 
upon  the  artist,  and  it  is  a  just  demand.  Yet,  in  the 
very  face  of  it,  we  forbid  him  everything  that  could 
bring  him  such  experiences  as  will  give  him  that 
broad  perspective  and  wide  and  delicate  grasp  upon 
life  which  we  expect  to  find  reflected  in  his  work. 
The  creation  of  a  novel,  opera,  symphony,  or  the 
artistic  interpretation  of  a  masterwork,  that  is  not 
[  13^  ] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

strongly  colored  by  the  author's  or  interpreter's 
temperament,  does  not  win  our  interest,  much  less 
our  approval;  but  of  the  artist,  himself,  as  a  man, 
we  demand  that  he  have  the  temperament  of  a  clam 
or  else  we  cry :  Anathema !  It  is  like  blaming  a  pearl- 
fisher  for  getting  wet.  This  absurdly  contradictive 
attitude  is,  no  doubt,  due  to  the  deplorable  circum- 
stance that  the  majority  of  people  believe  morals 
and  conventionality  to  be  interchangeable  synonyms, 
which,  of  course,  they  are  not.  How  numerous  were 
the  voices  raised  in  pharisaical  indignation  against 
Carlyle,  Whitman,  Mozart,  Wagner,  and  many 
other  great  artists!  It  does  seem  strange  that  these 
"unco  guid"  pharisees  were  never  struck  by  the 
thought  which  lies  so  near,  namely,  that  the  voices 
of  these  artists  reached  so  much  further  than  their 
own  and  lasted  ever  so  much  longer.  No  less  strange 
is  the  circumstance  that  the  higher  Mrs.  Grundy 
raised  her  voice  against  an  artist  as  a  man,  the  more 
eagerly  she  devours  his  biography  after  his  death; 
and  when  his  biography  disproves  the  naughty, 
naughty  things  **they  said"  of  him,  Mrs.  Grundy  is 
— disappointed. 

Balzac  once  said  that  "the  artist  has  long  ears — on 
the  inside."  Why  not  leave  them  there?  Why  insist 
upon  his  wearing  them  on  the  outside,  like  other 
good — that  is,  conventional — people? 
There  have  been  men  whose  life,  itself,  was  a  work 
of  art;  men  whose  value  to  the  world  lay  in  their 
f  133  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

conduct,  in  their  personal  disposition,  in  their 
historical  significance  in  so  far  as  it  grew  out  of  their 
personality.  Their  biographies  should  be  read,  by  all 
means,  because  it  was  their  personal  conduct  which 
constituted  their  legacy  to  the  worldy  and  because  good 
conduct,  integrity,  wisdom,  are  certainly  commend- 
able for  emulation.  It  could  be  said,  of  course,  that 
the  love  of  these  virtues  should,  more  properly, 
be  instilled  and  developed  in  us  by  our  parents  and 
educators  instead  of  our  having  to  wait  until  we 
chance  to  read  such  an  inspiring  biography.  Since, 
however,  some  of  us  were  perhaps  deprived  of 
elevating  influences  in  our  childhood,  the  biographies 
of  such  good  and  wise  men  as,  for  instance,  Abraham 
Lincoln,  will  and  must  ever  be  of  the  greatest  benefit 
to  its  readers.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  however, 
that  with  such  illustrious  men  their  gift  to  the  world 
was  identical  with  their  personality,  while,  as  said 
before,  with  the  artists  it  was  from  their  private  life 
a  thing  entirely  apart. 

These  are  not  all,  but  some  and  perhaps  sufllcient, 
reasons  why  artists*  biographies  should  be  neither 
written  nor  read;  not,  at  least,  read  by  artists  and 
more  especially  not  by  art-students  to  whom  the 
word  "Beethoven"  represents  not  a  person  but  a 
glorious  idea,  until — they  read  that  in  a  spell  of  ill 
humor  he  discharged  three  cooks  in  one  week;  that 
he  was  deaf;  that  his  nephew  was  a  scapegrace;  and 
so  forth.  This  important  information  reduces  in  their 
f  134  ] 


ON  ARTISTS'  BIOGRAPHIES 

juvenile  minds  the  "idea"  Beethoven  to  a  somewhat 
bristly  "Mister."  Is  this  a  gain?  Is  it  not  rather 
destructive  of  that  idealism  without  which  nothing 
can  be  accomplished  in  art?  There  is.  Heaven  knows, 
little  enough  of  this  idealism  to  be  found  among  the 
youngsters  of  a  generation  that  is  fast  losing  the 
understanding  of  the  difference  between  the  virtue 
of  aspiration  and  the  vice  of  ambition.  If  the  laity 
insists  upon  reading  artist-biographies,  let  them  do 
so  to  their  heart's  content;  but  instead  of  hiding 
behind  the  pretext  of  literary,  psychological  or 
historical  interest  they  should  frankly  confess  to 
their  indecorous  fondness  for  post  mortem  tittle- 
tattle.  If  the  respect  for  other  people's  private  life 
is  not  innate  in  them — and  it  does  not  seem  to  be — 
why,  then,  in  the  name  of  decency,  let  them  follow 
Hamlet's  suggestion  to  his  mother: 

"Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not." 


[  135  1 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 


CIVILIZATION, 
CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

Said  an  old  lawyer  to  a  younger  one:  "When  you  are 
cornered  in  an  argument,  ask  at  once  for  a  definition 
of  the  words  used."  This  trick  is  so  old  as  to  have 
almost  acquired  the  dignity  of  a  maxim.  While  the 
witness  under  examination  is  racking  his  brain  for  a 
definition  the  lawyer  gains  time  and  if,  finally,  the 
witness  succeeds  in  contriving  some  sort  of  definition, 
the  lawyer,  with  a  smile  of  superiority,  quotes  a  case 
where  (by  misapplication)  the  poor  layman's  defi- 
nition does  not  fit.  Nothing  is  easier  (and  more 
reprehensible)  than  this  old  trick,  because  definitions 
cannot  and  do  not  explain  any  term  the  meaning  of 
which  lies  deeper  than  the  shallow  flow  of  mere 
intellectual  reasoning.  Especially  true  is  this  of 
terms  which  apply  to  the  "inner"  man  and  to  the 
higher  nature  in  him;  to  such  terms  as  "honor," 
"gentleman,"  "culture,"  and  many  kindred  ones. 
We  may  say  that  "gentleman,"  "honor"  and 
"culture"  are  so  closely  associated  that  we  could 
readily  define  each  of  these  words  if  we  had  terms  to 
define  the  others;  but  we  have  no  such  terms, 
because  these  words  denote  chiefly  psychic  qualities, 
and  for  the  designation  and  workings  of  such 
qualities  human  language  has  as  yet  not  evolved  a 
vocabulary;  they  are  expressible  only  through  the 
medium  of  art. 

f  139  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

At  an  early  stage  of  his  development  Man  felt  that 
there  was  a  life  within  himself,  not  independent  of 
his  bodily  existence,  but  yet  altogether  apart  from 
it;  an  inner  life  which  for  its  expression  required 
more  than  the  terminology  of  his  speech  afforded 
him.  It  was  the  growing  consciousness  of  this  inner 
life,  and  the  craving  for  its  communication  to  his 
fellow-beings,  that  awakened  the  art  instinct  in 
him*,  and  the  further  he  developed  as  a  species  the 
more  clearly  he  realized  that  the  true  province  of 
art  lies  in  expressing  the  undefinable,  in  uttering 
the  unsayable. 

However,  where  definitions  fail  to  explain  "the  thing 
in  itself,"  as  Kant  has  it,  a  discussion  of  its  chief  est 
qualities  may  be  helpful  to  an  understanding.  Taking 
this  general  direction,  it  may  be  said  at  the  outset 
that  such  words  as  "civilization"  and  "culture"  are 
labels  for  ideas  which  differ  not  in  degree  but  in 
essence. 

Civilization 

appertains  exclusively  to  the  outer  man.  It  is  an 
organizer  of  external  conditions  for  people  that  need 
laws,  regulations,  ordinances  to  inform  them  as  to 
what  they  may  do  and  from  what  they  shall  have  to 
refrain.  Civilization  groups  human  beings  into  units 
larger  than  families  and  tribes;  it  clusters  them  into 
communities,  states,  nations,  it  aims  at  protecting 

•See  Sternberg,  "Ethics  and  Esthetics"  (G.  Schirmer,  New  York,  1917). 

[  uo  J 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

a  person's  life  and  limb;  it,  at  least,  endeavors  to 
vouchsafe  justice  to  him;  it  tries  to  safeguard  his 
materal  possessions,  to  regulate  his  commerce;  in 
short,  it  is — with  varying  success — an  effort  to 
ensure  the  maintenance  of  everything  that  is  not 
inherent  to  the  man,  himself,  to  his  ego. 
On  the  other  hand,  civilization  makes  it  quite  possi- 
ble for  a  person  to  be  morally  absolutely  right,  and 
legally  just  as  absolutely  wrong;  also  vice  versa;  and 
it  provides  many  means  (and  hence  also  the  in- 
centives) for  moral  obliquity,  because  the  celestial 
Judge  often  differs  so  uncomfortably  from  the 
terrestrial  judiciary. 

Nevertheless,  civilization  seems  to  be  as  necessary 
as  ground  is  for  a  building.  Not  every  soil  is  fit  for 
fruitful  husbandry,  but  some  sort  of  house  can  be 
built  on  almost  any  kind  of  ground.  Just  so  does 
civilization  enable  even  the  lowest  order  of  human 
intelligence  to  be  serviceable  to  higher  intelligences. 
Hence,  civilization  may  be  regarded  as  a  mental  and 
physical  tenement  district  populated  by  those  to 
whom  the  graces  of  life — which  distinguish  "life" 
from  mere  "existence" — ^have  not  yet  become  a 
necessity.  Now,  just  as  these  inhabitants  are  best 
benefitted  by  serving  the  plans  and  aims  of  higher 
intelligences,  so  may  some  phases  of  civilization  be 
used  as  means  for  the  dissemination  of 
(  141  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

Culture 
Before  turning  to  a  discussion  of  it,  however,  I  must 
beg  leave  to  say  that  by  "culture"  I  do  not  refer  to 
"that  worst  of  pseudo-any things  which  is  quite 
properly  misspelled  Cultchaw;  for  that,  instead  of 
being  assimilated  knowledge,  is  but  sheer  undigested 
ignorance/** 

Culture  deals  solely  with  the  inner  man,  and  since 
the  inner  man  largely  governs  the  outer  man, 
culture  may  be  regarded  as  "the  power  behind  the 
throne,"  the  causa  movens  in  the  affairs  and  deport- 
ment of  higher  intelligences.  It  presupposes  fine 
instincts  and  denotes  their  perfect  development. 
Knowledge  is  only  an  attribute  of  culture;  for  what- 
ever knowledge  a  man  possesses — especially  in  the 
realm  of  ethics  and  morals — must  have  sunk  into 
him  so  deeply  and  permeated  his  being  so  thoroughly 
as  to  have  gone  away  past  his  consciousness  and 
formal  memory;  it  must  have  turned  into  an 
instinct,  as  grammar  does  with  a  poet,  before  it  can 
bear  the  fruit  of  culture.  Scholarly  people  are  not 
necessarily  cultured,  and  cultured  people  are  not 
necessarily  scholars.  Culture  is  the  soul-fruit  of 
knowledge;  its  flavor  depends  much  less  upon  the 
seed  of  knowledge  than  upon  the  soil,  which  is  the 
human  psyche  or  soul  or  heart — call  it  by  either 
name.    In  its  deepest  and  noblest  meaning  culture 

♦W.  F.  Apthorp,  "By  the  Way." 

[    142    1 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

is  the  fount  of  that  force  which  serves  to  work  out  a 

higher  type  of  humanity.    All  other  forces  are  but 

tributary  to  it. 

At  this  point  there  suggest  themselves  four  serious 

questions: 

(1)  What  is  the  relative  utility  of  culture  and 

of  civilization? 

(2)  What  is  the  bearing  of  either  upon  the  cosmic 

and  developmental  aspect  of  humanity? 

(3)  Which  of  the  two,  regarded  with  reference  to 

the  first  question,  is  it  more  important  to 
foster? 

(4)  What  are  the  means  to  foster  them? 

Comparisons 
Roughly  speaking,  civilization,  or  what  we  mean  by 
that  word,  began  in  ancient  Rome;  for  it  was  Rome 
that  gave  us  the  spirit  of  the  man-ma^e  "law,"  the 
strongest  pillar  of  civilization.  Incidentally  it  also 
generated  the  sophistry  for  circumventing  the  law. 
(See  "Cicero.")  Nevertheless,  the  early  Roman  was 
the  first  to  understand  that  the  welfare  of  Rome, 
itself,  was  the  best  vou^cher  for  his  own  material 
prosperity  and  that,  therefore,  it  was  fyit  prudent 
to  align  his  personal  interest  with  the  welfare  of  all 
— that  is,  of  all  Romans,  of  course;  the  rest  of  the 
known  world  did  not  matter  to  him  in  the  least. 
How  far  early  Rome  succeeded  under  this  principle : 
how  brief,  how  unfortunate  were  the  expjeriments  at 
I  143) 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

monarchy,  republic,  tribuneship,  triumvirate,  de- 
cemvirate,  etc. :  how  all  ended  in  direst  disaster  when 
the  appeal  to  the  inner  man,  from  small  beginnings, 
rose  to  the  glorious  triumph  of  Christ's  teachings — 
all  this  is  history  and  needs  no  repeating  here.  True, 
Rome  rose  again  from  its  fall,  but  solely  because  it 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  inner  man  through  re- 
ligion and  art.  Rome,  had,  however,  faUen  very  low 
long  before  it  was  aware  of  it.  Regardless  of  its 
vaunted  civilization  it  had  not  cast  off  its  barbarity; 
in  fact,  it  proved  that  brutality,  inhumanity  and 
barbarity  were  perfectly  compatible  with  "civili- 
zation," to  which  the  arenas  of  the  Coliseum  and 
of  the  Circus  Maximus,  the  slogan  Panem  et  Cir- 
censesy  the  "living  torches,"  etc.,  bear  persistent, 
unexpungeable  testimony.  Rome  could  not  free 
itself  from  barbarity  because  of  the  erroneous  idea 
that  culture  could  come  to  it  from  without;  that  it 
could  be  "imported."  Its  own  civilization  did  not 
even  aim  at  culture  and  hence  it,  practically,  had 
none.  In  spite  of  our  respectful  regard  for  Horace, 
Lucretius,  Seneca,  and  a  few  other  thinkers  who 
were,  incidentally,  also  shameful  sycophants,  we  can 
scarcely  place  their  names  in  line  with  those  who 
preceded  them  in  Greece,  such  as  Homer,  Thales, 
Socrates,  Plato,  Aeschylos,  Euripides,  Sophocles, 
Pythagoras,  Archimedes,  Aristotle,  Aristoxenes, 
Phydias,  Praxiteles,  and  ever  so  many  others  of  high 
significance  to  us  at  present, 
f  144  1 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

It  is  a  fact,  alas,  that  Greece,  too,  had  to  fall;  but  it 
fell  only  politically  and  lost  many  of  its  art-works 
through  the  exportations  enforced  by  Rome.  Greece, 
however,  has  never  sunk  to  the  depth  of  Roman 
barbarity,  and  as  to  its  culture — it  never  died !  The 
spirit  of  Hellas  is  eternal  I  Eternal,  as  is  the  joy  of 
life  which  it  embodied. 

Now,  Greece  had  no  civilization  in  the  Roman  mean- 
ing of  the  word;  or  rather,  it  treated  the  embryonic 
inklings  of  it  very  negligently.  It  failed  to  provide 
a  palatable  substitute  for  culture  to  the  uncultur- 
able.  Greece  was,  however,  very  religious  accord- 
ing to  its  lights,  which  early  Rome  was  not.  Greece 
had  a  Periclean  era,  a  "golden  age" — Rome  had  not. 
Greece  symbolized  every  phase  of  life  by  its  superb 
mythology;  it  gave  us,  besides,  philosophy,  poetry, 
drama,  rhetoric,  oratory,  a  highly  organized  gram- 
mar, mathematics,  natural  science,  machinery, 
architecture,  sculpture,  painting  and — the  first 
principles  of  organized  music;  principles  that  are 
recognized  to  this  very  day.  What  has  the  civili- 
zation of  Rome  given  us  to  offset  this  magnificent 
array  of  living  ideas — and  ideals? 
Greece  gave  us  all  that  culture  has  in  its  giving;  all 
that  Rome  could  only  borrow,  but  not  assimilate;  all 
that  later  ages  could  but  develop  on — sometimes — 
broader  Hues;  but  it  gave  us  no  "civilization."  In 
its  ideal  enjoyment  of  the  graces  of  life  it  failed  to 
observe  that  the  vast  majority  of  humans  were  not 
I  145  ] 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

capable  of  grasping  more  than  "civilization,"  and  of 
this  beautiful  but  fatal  optimism  it  died  a  tragic, 
a  pathetic  death;  though,  after  all,  only  a  political 
death,  for  its  spirit  still  lives !  And  the  world  of  our 
day,  when  not  at  war,  turns  with  every  advancing 
step  more  toward  the  marvelous  culture  of  ancient 
Greece  and  away  from  the  Roman  type  of  civiliza- 
tion. Roman  law  has  been  superceded  everywhere 
by  more  humane  jurisprudence,  but  the  Milesian 
Venus,  the  Acropolis,  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee  are 
still  admired,  as  they  were  in  their  pristine  freshness, 
as  ideal  creations  of  the  cultured  human  mind. 
Now,  as  we  look  back  upon  the  long  and  slow  course 
of  human  development,  we  cannot  fail  to  observe — 
and  medical  and  social  statistics  verify  the  observa- 
tion— that  the  average  man  of  the  present  is  much 
superior  to  his  social  equal  of  the  past.  He  lives 
better  and,  therefore,  longer;  he  is  also  stronger,  his 
manners-  speaking  very  generally — are  milder;  there 
are  in  proportion  to  the  population  and  in  countries 
where  civilization  is  more  than  a  sham,  fewer 
murders,  robberies  and  other  crimes  of  violence 
committed.  In  this  the  result  of  civilization?  Ah, 
would  to  heaven  that  it  were,  but  it  is  not!  It  is  the 
result  of  culture,  of  which  the  Christian  religion  is  a 
strong  motive  force;  it  is  the  result  of  the  develop- 
ment of  the  inner  man !  For  civilization  with  its  laws, 
codes,  etc.,  can  do  no  more  than  punish  the  trans- 
gressor after  his  evil  deed  or,  at  best,  frighten  him  out 
[  146  ] 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

of  his  contemplated  crime  (a  theory  modern  crimin- 
ology vainly  tries  to  discard),  while  the  culture  of  the 
heart  prevents  crime  by  generating  in  the  heart  a 
horror  of  wronging  a  fellow-being.  And  if  civiHzation 
itself  has  assumed  a  slightly  more  ideal  aspect,  if  it 
has  grown  more  clement  in  its  adjudications,  more 
mild  in  its  punitive  measures,  is  it  not  because 
cultured  hearts  have  influenced  civilized  legislation? 
Whither  the  course  of  human  development  shall  yet 
lead,  to  what  height  of  perfection  humanity  shall 
grow,  there  is  no  telling.  What  we  do  know  is  that 
progress  is  our  duty;  that  we  should  leave  this  world 
better  than  we  found  it;  that  the  progress  of  the 
human  species  as  such  is  but  the  aggregate,  the  sum 
total  of  the  development  of  each  individual;  and, 
finally,  that  this  development  must — and  can  only 
— come  from  within.  However  much  it  may  be 
assisted  from  without,  the  mainspring  of  our  develop- 
ment lies  within  ourselves.  Aid  from  without  can  do 
no  more  than  awaken  the  cultural  forces  where  they 
lie  dormant,  which  is  not  infrequently  the  case. 
How  can  this  be  done.'^  Simply  enough,  by  raising  the 
functions  of  the  senses,  the  action  of  the  eye  and  ear, 
above  their  merely  physiological  level;  by  inducing 
them  to  carry  their  impressions  not  merely  to  the  reg- 
istering intellect,  but  past  it — to  the  soul.  This  is  pos- 
sible only  through  the  agency  of  art,  as  the  Churches  of 
every  known  creed  in  the  world  have  acknowledged 
and  proved  by  enlisting  the  arts  in  their  services. 
f  147  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

The  painter  and  the  poet  teach  us  to  see  in  a  land- 
scape more  than  its  component  trees,  hills,  brooks, 
etc. ;  they  awaken  in  us  the  esthesis  for  beauty  and, 
through  it,  the  love  of  nature.  The  dramatist  dis- 
closes to  us  the  inner  workings  of  the  human  soul 
under  stress  of  circumstances.  The  novelist,  by 
showing  us  invented,  but  probable,  events,  develops 
our  imagination  in  conjunction  with  reason  and  in- 
tellect. But  the  best  of  all  such  services,  the  service 
that  encompasses  all  these,  is  rendered  by  good 
music,  for  it  is  this  "divine"  art  which  makes  the 
most  direct  appeal  to  the  human  heart  and  which, 
because  of  its  profound,  if  unprovable,  logic  is  the 
greatest  disciplinarian  of  imagination  and  emotion. 
In  some  inexplicable,  mysterious  way  music  appeals 
to  what  is  best  in  us.  The  heartstrings  that  have 
been  jarred  by  the  world,  music  puts  them  in  tune 
again.  It  works  upon  the  inner  man  as  sunlight  does 
upon  the  outer.  Of  all  the  innumerable  mysteries 
that  surround  us  day  by  day,  music  is  the  pro- 
foundest  and  the  sweetest. 

The  observation  may  find  a  place  here  that  the  con- 
duct of  followers  of  esthetic  pursuits  of  life — artists 
of  every  branch: — ^has  seldom,  perhaps  never,  called 
forth  judicial  penalties  of  the  graver  sort.  By 
rousing  the  jealousy  (in  love-affairs)  of  some  person 
in  political  power  certain  painters  and  sculptors 
have  suffered  imprisonment  unjustly ^  but  this 
happened  in  medieval  times;  though  even  such  in- 
\  148  1 


CIVILIZATION,  CULTURE  AND  MUSIC 

justice,  strange  to  say,  has  been  spared  to  one  type 
of  artists — to  musicians.  This  is  a  suggestive  point, 
because  in  the  past,  to  which  this  refers,  the  school 
education  of  even  great  artists  has  often  been  very 
meagre,  and  of  the  laws  and  penal  code  of  their 
countries  they  surely  were  utterly  ignorant.  What, 
then,  was  it  that  effected  the  self-restraint  which 
prevented  them  from  criminality,  if  it  was  not  the 
emotional  discipline  derived  from  their  occupation; 
the  culture  of  the  heart,  that  made  the  intellectual 
concept  of  legalities  unnecessary  .^^  A  criminal  knows 
intellectually  quite  well  that  his  contemplated  crime 
will  be  a  breach  of  law,  but  his  emotional  life  is  too 
impoverished,  his  imagination  too  undeveloped, 
to  bring  to  his  mind  the  suffering  .his  evil  act  would 
be  bound  to  cause;  the  culturable  cells  in  him  are 
atrophied,  too  enfeebled  to  counteract  his  lowest 
instincts;  the  categorical  imperative  has  withered 
into  inactivity  and — the  crime  is  committed.  Does 
it  not  suggest  that  the  stoutest  pillar  of  civilization 
falls  short  of  improving  humanity,  while  the  culture 
of  the  heart  has  proved  its  powers  in  this  regard 
in  uncountable  instances? 

History  shows  that  each  age  or  era  has  had  its 
favorite  art.  The  ancient  Greeks  were,  in  the  main, 
poets  and  architects;  the  middle  ages  favored 
painting;  ours  is  the  age  of  music  And  the  world 
realizes  with  ever-increasing  clearness  that  this  art 
— ^for  which,  as  it  sometimes  seems,  the  other  arts 
f  149  1 


TEMPO  RUBATO  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

have  had  to  prepare  the  ground  of  human  sus- 
ceptibiHty — that  this  art,  I  say,  is  no  mere  plaything 
or  amusement,  but  that  it  sheds  its  Hght  and  warmth 
into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  soul,  the  true  soil  of 
"culture";  that  it  thus  prepares  this  soil;  that  there- 
by it  leads  to  a  better  understanding  and  a  higher 
conception  of  life,  and  that  in  its  indefiniteness — so 
often  disparaged — lies  its  very  strength  as  a  stimulus 
to  our  responsive  psychic  activity.  Says  Tom 
Moore : 

Music!  Oh,  how  faint,  how  weak 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell. 
Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak. 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well? 

Could  I  but  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  my 
kindly  readers — whom  I  now  bid  an  indulgence- 
pleading  farewell — I  would  say  to  them,  leave  civili- 
zation to  the  politicians  and  statesmen;  sooner  or 
later  they  will  make  a  mess  of  it.  They  have,  so  far, 
always  done  so.  If  you  become  cultured,  in  the  heart 
as  well  as  in  the  mind — but  especially  in  the  heart — 
you  need  no  civilization;  for  then  you  will  obey  all 
"laws"  by  instinct.  And  if  you  learn  to  appreciate 
good  music,  culture  will  enter  your  heart  without 
your  knowing  it.  For  muw«ic  is  the  power  that  opens 
the  windows  of  your  soul  to  let  in  the  stimulating 
air  and  vivifying  sunlight  of  heart-culture. 


150  ] 


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